


Illicio

by ThatOneGirlBehindYou



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beholding Avatar Basira Hussain, Canon Rewrite, Desolation Avatar Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Eyepocalypse now, F/F, Helen is cool in this one fellas just chaotic neutral, Jon Needs a Hug, M/M, Multi, Not bc it's not great but bc it hurts me and I need to fix that, OT3, Polyamory, Really everyone needs hugs, Resurrection, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Stranger Avatar Sasha James, Team Bonding, and I'm going to fix that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 131,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23497300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneGirlBehindYou/pseuds/ThatOneGirlBehindYou
Summary: As the new Archivist debates between life and death, the Eye ponders on what to offer him in order to avoid an encore of the unfortunate situation with his predecessor.-----Gerard Keay opens his eyes at what feels like fuck-ass in the morning, inside a room with far too little space and far too much dust.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Gerard Keay/Jonathan Sims, Helen & Melanie King, Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Melanie King & Gerard Keay
Comments: 2028
Kudos: 2076





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by Everchased's beautiful Jon/Gerry/Martin on Tumblr, and my need to give Jon as many boyfriend's as possible because he deserves them.
> 
> In other words I had feelings and I'm making that everyone's problem.
> 
> A HUGE thank you to [Mx_Carter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Carter/pseuds/Mx_Carter) for being a super patient and helpful beta and providing the most hilarious comments!

**I**

The Eye thrives on knowledge, of course. On understanding. Not necessarily on moving the pieces across the board -that's the Spider's domain, though perhaps that's why they work so well together, one knowing exactly where pawn needs to be to strike the king, the other moving it forward with the slightest pull of a string- but on seeing all details, and predicting all outcomes.

More than anything else, the Eye feeds on Knowing its chosen, and how to lure them in until they not only can't find the way out, but until they don't _want_ to. 

When Jonah Magnus first sat on the Panopticon, the Eye rewarded him with life eternal. It offered Gertrude Robinson all the gifts it had to give, and watched in delight as she -for all that she refused the powers- fed it knowledge acquired specifically to annoy other Entities. When young Gerard Keay marked his body with its image, the Eye gave him the ability to See. Just enough to entice him, to bring him onto the path of the Beholding and let the Archivist use him.

Now the Pupil has chosen it a new Archivist, and as he debates between life and death the Eye ponders on what to offer him in order to avoid an encore of the unfortunate situation with his predecessor.

Gertrude Robinson clung to her humanity with the same cold ferocity she used to guide so many innocents to their death -and worse- like lambs to the Slaughter. She was aware the monsters feared her, relished in the fact. She only ever gave the irony of it a passing thought. 

Jonathan on the contrary, is _painfully_ human, even as he steadily moves towards his realization as an Avatar. The Eye knows what he yearns for the most is the people he's lost. The ones he thinks will keep him human.

He's going to be sad, when he wakes up and finds that two more are gone.

It's not outside the realm of possibility, to bring one of them back for him. Make it blatantly obvious that it was a gift from the Ceaseless Watcher, that more can be given if he surrenders himself over fully and willingly.

Entities bring people back from the dead all the time. Dying is after all, a requirement to become an Avatar in full. Terminus is patient, mostly because Avatars of all kinds usually end up feeding it with their victims. Their patrons get their fear, The End gets their lives. 

Resurrecting people marked by other Entities, however? Not as simple.

Sasha James fed the Stranger when she died, so long ago and before she could form any meaningful connection to the Entity that would have been her patron. She survived for a while even in her state of not being, banging against the inside of mirrors to try and make her friends notice the reflection didn't quite match up to the impostor. It never worked.

Alice Tonner is not dead, and even if she were, the Hunt has her well within its grasp. The connection grows fainter each year-long day she stays in the coffin, but as she is now, she's not a possibility.

Timothy Stoker is promising. Though he was marked by the Stranger in his youth, though the Desolation turned its flaming gaze to him the moment he pressed the trigger with only _destruction_ in his mind, Tim belonged to the Beholding for years. 

They were also friends. Well before the Archives, before the Knowledge, before the pain. Nights out in which the awkwardness became comfortable merely because of its familiarity, jokes that struck too hard and apologies that were more heartfelt than they were good. 

Jon requested Tim be moved to the Archives because he felt his presence would make the new space _safe_. Tim followed because his love for people has always manifested in a need to _be there_ , regardless of if 'there' is the Old Opera House or a stuffy old basement with too many statements to sort through.

The Eye knows better of course. It always does. 

Jon flinched away from Tim's every movement, feared his barbed words as much as he sought them out. Drank in the bitter poison of his hatred as though it might kill the monster inside him, as he tried to hold back his new instincts for fear of driving him further away. Jon and Tim loved each other once, and even in the last months of his life Jon still held on to the hope that if he regained Tim's affection it would mean he was human again.

A misguided notion, and a dangerous one at that.

The Eye needs someone who has loved monsters. Someone who will do so again.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gerard Keay opens his eyes at what feels like fuck-ass in the morning, inside a room with far too little space and far too much dust.

Of course, the fact that he wakes up at all takes priority in his mind over his apparent taste in nap spots, since the last time -or what he expected to be the last time- he closed his eyes, his page on mum's bloody skin book was _finally_ going to burn, after years of being forced to play spooky Wikipedia for a pair of nutcases.

His head spins when he sits up on the cot, and he has to bend forward and rest his elbows on his knees until the world. Stops. Moving.

Why the on _Earth_ is he still here?! Hasn't he earned his rest? He helped save so many people, he-

"Coma! Great," comes a muffled voice, and the world stills so suddenly he almost misses the nausea.

Gerry very slowly lifts his head, but the dizziness doesn't come back. Before him is a heavy door with a small window made of thick glass, glowing softly against the darkness of the room in an insinuation of light somewhere beyond.

"Let's rearrange his office," the voice says again, just as Gerry climbs to his feet. He feels much more steady than he expected just from his wild excursion into sitting, as he follows the familiar voice towards the door. "Sleeping people don't need pens."

He leans down to look through the glass.

There, down a long corridor and much too far for Gerry to reasonably be able to listen to, is Jonathan Sims.

That explains the sense of familiarity coming from the voice. But... it makes no sense. Jon promised to burn his page, and Gerry- 

Gerry actually believed him when he did. 

He seemed so different from Gertrude, eyes looking at him like a person instead of a tool, even when he had most decidedly stopped being the former and moved firmly down the scale to the latter. Had Jon broken his promise? Had he kept- 

But no, this doesn't feel at all like waking up from his page. He feels… real. Human enough to be sick, to be sore and tired and-

"Melanie!" a burst of energy pumps through his veins -he's got veins?- when Jon speaks again, but when Gerry looks up he's not sitting at his desk anymore. "It's very good to uh- Melanie? Are you- WHOA!" 

His hand tightens around the doorknob almost out of its own volition, and he sends the door flying open. 

"Melanie, it's- it's me!" Jon's voice has a slight hint of fear in it. Of desperation. 

Gerry takes a step down the corridor, and he stops for a second. His muscles tense and relax and he can feel his weight on his bones, smell the dust and the scent of old paper. He'd forgotten the human body could _feel_ so many things. It's so stupid that he never stopped to notice when he was alive.

"No! I- I'm back!" A new set of words floats down the corridor, pouring into Gerry like warm water over a strained limb.

Oh right. The Archivist. 

He runs then, flying towards the door as fast as his limbs can carry him. He arrives into Jon's office first, a small room with a desk that's much too neat for anyone to have used it recently, but he barely has enough time to take it all in before Jon's voice pulls at him again, towards the open door.

"What?! No I just- I didn't meant to-"

"How did you make it out then hm?!" Now that he's close enough, Gerry can finally hear the person Jon's arguing with. They sound like a woman, angry and dangerous and-

Much smaller than he'd expected, when he finally peeks through the door. The slight, bony woman exudes an air of violence -there's something wrong with her, Gerry can See it but not place just _what_ it is- as she squares up to a very fidgety Jon, with a hand firmly stuck down her jacket pocket.

"What?" Jon asks. The single, nervous word is almost hypnotic, and a sneaking suspicion is beginning to form in Gerry's mind. 

"Tim's dead. Even _Daisy's_ dead, so why are you just fine?" The woman, Melanie, since Jon called her that a moment ago, asks. 

"W- no! I've been in the hospital for six mon-" 

" _Something_ has been in the hospital for six months, something with your face!" Melanie pulls her hand out of her pocket and yeah, that's a knife. "I warned Basira to not let you back in here, but she! Doesn't! Listen!"

Everything happens at once then. Melanie takes a step forward -she's not wielding the knife as much as she's holding it, Gerry notices, like one would a stress ball-, Jon takes a step back and right over a piece of broken porcelain on the floor, and Gerry takes one out the door. It's like a very weird, surprisingly organized ballet.

"I wouldn't stab him if I were you" Gerry says right as he walks out. Both their gazes hone in on him, one much heavier than the other. "I don't think it'll do much good anyways"

"Who the hell are you?" Melanie turns the knife to him -definitely wielding it now- at the same time Jon lets out a strangled sound.

"Gerry?" Jon asks, eyeing him up and down with a frown. "I'm- That's not- I burned your page!"

"See, that's what I wanted to hear. That and some answers, but instead I have to keep you from getting stabbed as soon as I wake up." Gerry shrugs.

"Don't move" Melanie snarls at him, before turning to Jon. "Who is he?"

"That's Gerard Keay," Jon says as quickly as if he'd been compelled, his eagerness to be found trustworthy almost painful to witness. "he was- is... He worked with Gertrude. And he should be dead."

"Twice over," Gerry confirms with a nod. "apparently I just can't get any rest around you Archivists. That room at the end of the corridor needs a dusting, by the way."

Jon merely gapes at him for a moment. "I- This doesn't make any sen-"

"I'm calling Basira," Melanie cuts into his words, a mobile already lodged between her shoulder and ear.

"I thought you said she never listened," Jon mutters, and Gerry snorts. 

"It's me. Get down to his office, now," and she hangs up, before pinning Gerry with a glare again. "Get in." 

And really, Gerry's genetically predisposed to rear back against literally any order he's given, but something about Melanie tells him the knife isn't for show. If he's really alive, refusing to go into a perfectly normal room he was in just a minute ago feels like a very bad hill to die on.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Yeah, I've heard some of the ones he shows up on," Basira nods. She's leaning against the closed door of Jon's office and he has no doubt no one will be getting in or out while she's there. "The Hunters had him didn't they? Back in America."

"Not my favorite time, I'll admit," Gerry says, and Jon looks over at him, still somewhat refusing to believe he's real.

He looks... Solid. It sounds like a dumb trait to remark on, but it's the one thing Jon can't get out of his head. The last time he saw him, Gerry was a spectre.A memory of a memory, not even the real him, an echo of pain bound to the pages of the book. Now he's sitting on top of Jon's desk, directly on top of a now very crumpled statement and all Jon can focus on is on how he _can_ crumple paper, cast a shadow, push his paperweight around. His skin folds and stretches as he moves, and the eyes marked over every joint give the appearance of blinking every time he flexes his fingers.

"-n? Jon!" Basira's urgent tone pulls at him, and he looks away from Gerry's hands to find her staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Uh... What?" Jon asks. Did he miss part of the conversation?

"You tell me," Basira rolls her eyes. "I was asking you how is he alive, if you burned his page before the Unknowing?"

"Well, how would I-" know?, he means to add. But of course now something is pressing against his mind, like the beginnings of a headache only it feels like a thousand people whispering in his ear at the same time. "Urgh..." Jon frowns, pressing his thumb to his temple uselessly. Pressure doesn't work too well against these sort of migraines, he's found.

"Jon?" Basira takes a step forward, and Melanie's hand immediately shoots forward to pull on her arm. 

"Don't touch him," she warns. Jon has little to no doubt the knife is back in her hand, and that she's waiting for him to sprout an extra eye so she can stab it. It would serve him right. 

"I'm-" Jon grunts "just a moment, it's-" he stops talking then. It's distracting, and he needs to block-

"Ride it," says Gerry. Jon parts his eyelids -he has no idea when he closed them- and finds he's still sitting on his desk, leaning his elbows on his knees. He's intertwined his fingers, and the way his knuckles align with each other makes it so there's a line of eyes staring back at Jon. 

"I- what?"

"You're Knowing something aren't you?" Gerry asks casually. "Gertrude had some of those too. Don't push back, just... Ride it out."

"I'm not going to just let it come, that's- I don't want this!" Jon doesn't know if he's trying to convince himself, or Basira and Melanie but the pressure just keeps getting heavier and heavier-

"You're just going to hurt yourself, you're going to pass out, and when you wake up you will Know," Gerry rolls his eyes. He certainly seems as snarky as when he was a book ghost. "Come on, let Daddy Eye tell you."

Jon darts a desperate look at Basira, tries to ignore how Melanie looks like she's a wrong movement away from launching at him with the knife.

He's... grateful for a moment, that Tim isn't here. That Martin isn't. He wouldn't want them to see him like this.

Basira sighs. "Just... Do it. I guess it works in our favor this time," she says, and it's all the permission Jon needs to just _let go_.

He closes his eyes again, and when he finally stops pushing against the Eye the knowledge gets implanted in his head almost gently, like it's rewarding him for giving in. It makes him feel nauseated.

"T- The Watcher resurrected you." Jon doesn't say 'for me', because it would sound just as disgusting as it felt when the thought was dropped into his mind "It... I think it's a show of power. To... To make me-"

"To convince you to stay a good little monster?" Melanie hisses "Do what you're told, and you get people back? Whether they want it or not. Sounds right up your alley, if you ask me. You can just keep getting people killed, and we'll keep-"

"Melanie," Basira cuts into her rant with a single word. Jon looks at her gratefully, but her sharp, dark eyes are looking at him more in suspicion than sympathy. "Is she right? Can the Eye bring others back?"

And just like that, Jon is abruptly reminded that he wasn't the only one to lose someone in the Unknowing. 

"I... Don't know? Maybe?" He runs a hand through his hair in an old nervous tic that was much more convenient before he went into a coma and had no time for haircuts. "If I- if I serve it well... Maybe it will-"

"No," Basira's lips are a tense line, her eyes averted from Jon's "Forget it, I- we don't want to give it what it wants."

"... No. Of course not," Jon nods, though he Knows at that moment, very acutely, that Basira is not saying what she truly feels about the possibility they're being offered. "so... what should we do with Gerry?"

"It's going to sound crazy, but may I suggest you ask Gerry?" says the man himself. He looks... very unimpressed. But it's ok. Jon is starting to get used to that look aimed at him. "Maybe he has an opinion about being the Ceaseless Voyeur's toy."

"No offense, but I'm still debating on whether or not to kill you." Melanie crosses her arms. "If the Eye wants you alive, I'm pretty sure we don't."

"Well, I'm pretty sure I don't care." Gerry slides off the desk and turns his head side to side to crack his neck. "Gertrude, the Eye, the Hunters, you. I think I'm going to do my own thing. For a change."

He makes it as far as the door because Basira of course hasn't moved, and she's showing no inclination of doing so.

"I'm not letting you out," she says simply.

Gerry thrusts his hands in his pockets, looking down at Basira. Jon doesn't remember him being so tall, but then again he supposed it's hard to really estimate a ghost's height. 

"Are you going to kill me?" He asks.

Jon holds his breath. Melanie still has her knife, inching back and around Gerry silently as if waiting for Basira to give her a signal. Gerry's eyes don't follow her, but he has to know, right? 

"... No" says Basira after what feels like an eternity. Jon knows she doesn't kill innocents, that she prefers not to kill at all if there's another way -that's Daisy's M.O., Basira has never heard the blood sing in her veins- but he still worried. 

"Great. Is there any other reason to keep me here then?" Gerry asks again. His voice sounds pleasant and conversational, like it did when teased Jon about not knowing anything about Gertrude's plans. 

He finds himself thinking this might just be how Gerry _is_ , all wrapped up in humor and snark to keep out the rest of it. 

"You're alive, and you shouldn't be." Basira still hasn't moved from the door, but she gives her head a slight shake. Jon sees Melanie pocket the knife with a huff.

"I'm gonna take a wild guess and say I'm not the only one in that category." Gerry takes a step sideways to pivot on his heel, and Jon flinches a little when both of them look at him. "Start stabbing, I'll go after Jon."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They let him go after that, of course.

Gerry wanders the London streets for about a week afterwards, trying to figure out a plan of action while ignoring the fact that he doesn't feel the need for sleep, drink or food. He manages to find two of his old emergency stashes, one in a park, the other at the air vents behind a public library so at least he's got some money and two sets of credible fake ID's.

At some point he considers leaving the city. He ought to be able to find a job out by the countryside, and finally be out of this for good. If he doesn't go out looking for trouble, none should follow him. If some does, he knows enough to make it regret the decision.

The normal, boring life Gerry always wanted.

Instead he falls back on old habits, because it's the only thing he knows how to do.

He watches people, sitting on park benches and standing at bus stops. Most of the time they're perfectly normal, just people going about their lives and giving the big, scary looking man a passing look and a wide berth.

Sometimes they aren't.

When Gerry Sees marked people, he follows them from a distance until they're alone, and then he approaches. Some are easier to help than others, and he's both pleased and unnerved that the Eye didn't just give him his Sight back, but made it stronger too. It's much faster to just go up to a man and tell him to think of his daughter waiting at home, instead of trying to convince him he's no threat, or at least not compared to whatever it is he's going to fall into soon.

He also Sees an Avatar out hunting, once.

She's wearing heavy clothes and a facemask, that bulges and squirms disturbingly as she stalks down a group of schoolgirls. Gerry sees a wasp crawl out from under it and into her nostril.

The girls stop in front of a store window to chatter excitedly about what the mannequin -which is thankfully just a mannequin- is wearing, and Gerry hurries his step to reach them before the Hive does. 

"Hey," he says, stopping a meter or so away from them, because it won't do to scare them into running. The girls look up at him, already on edge and one of them clenching something inside her raincoat's pocket. Good. Smart girls. Still, he raises his hands to show them he means no harm. "Some freak's been following you. Go into the store for a bit and call someone to pick you up. I'll scare him off"

It takes them a moment to comply with his request, and Gerry applauds their instincts but really wishes they'd hurry because the Hive is coming closer, lurking behind a bus stop only a short distance away. Eventually though, one of them nods and takes one of her friend's hands to pull her into the shop. The rest follow.

"It's very rude to interrupt other people before a meal." The woman's voice is accompanied by a loud buzz and more squirming when Gerry approaches her. Her eyes are bloodshot and littered with yellow dots he suspects are eggs when she lifts her sunglasses to look at him.

"My mum didn't raise me too well," Gerry shrugs. "Go away, before I kill you."

"Are you with the Hunt?" the woman asks. A wasp crawls out of her ear. Gerry arches an eyebrow, but he decides not to draw attention to the literal _dozens_ of eyes across his body. Corruption Avatars, at least Hives, never seem to actually be all there; maybe their parasites eat the key parts of their brains?

"I've got what it takes," he says instead of confirming anything. It's dangerous to align yourself with an Entity, even just in word. A larva begins to squirm out her tear duct, and God, Gerry _hates_ Hives. "Last warning. Go away." He bats away the ear wasp that's trying to land on him.

"Hm... selfish," she mutters, before turning to walk away with her lone wasp following. 

Gerry stays at the bus stop until he sees a car stop and the schoolgirls climb into it, darting suspicious looks all around.

He starts feeling the strain by the beginning of the second week.

It's subtle at first, a little exhaustion like he'd been standing in the sun for too long with too warm clothes. With his stylistic choices, it's a feeling he knows well.

Then one night he catches sight of a man sitting alone in his car by the piers, and he tries to See if he's having a normal middle age crisis or staring out into either the Lonely or the Vast, and it hits him.

His legs feel weak, and for all that he feels his breathing quicken Gerry's acutely aware he can't feel his heartbeat doing the same. The dizziness from his first day comes back, and black begins to creep along the edges of his vision.

When he wakes up the next day, the man's car is there, but he's not. 

Gerry struggles to his feet, the nausea just this side of tolerable, and moves closer. The car's windows are clouded over from the inside with a heavy fog that has no business being inside a vehicle, much less under fairly strong sunlight. 

He sighs, disappointed. This is one he could've saved. 

He doesn't try to See again, but sometimes he can't help it, and every time he finds a mark on a passerby he feels weaker and weaker, until an idea pops up in his mind.

He's running out of battery.

It's a jarring thought, but he supposes it makes sense. While he doesn't think the Eye brought him back as a full on Avatar, he's been using Beholding traits to help people. He hasn't been feeding -regular _or_ monster food-, but he doesn't feel the need to either. There's no telling what the Watcher wants. 

It doesn't seem to want to tell him either, so Gerry just... keeps walking.

If worst comes to worst, he'll die. It's not that bad, and presumably this time it will be for good, as there's no skin book or Archivist in sight. Besides, he's helped some more people since coming back, so at least he did some good.

After two more days of aimless walking, Gerry leans back against an alley wall, and lets himself slide down to the ground. His legs can't carry him anymore. Maybe this is what a wind up toy feels like? 

He rests his forehead against a bent knee, his arms falling down limp by his sides. Maybe he won't die. Maybe his body will just... Shut down, and Gerry will be trapped inside it just like he was in the book. Maybe they'll find him tomorrow, think he overdosed, and bury him.

He certainly never expected to end up feeding Too-Close-I-Cannot-Breathe.

"Yes, I do," says a voice, and Gerry's head whips up almost on its own. "I'm- My name's Jon. Jonathan Sims. I moved in a few weeks ago, but I'm at work a lot."

Each and every word Jon says feels like a small bolt to his nerves, and Gerry remembers the suspicion he had that day at the Archives. 

Amazing. 

"Yes it's- very nice to meet you too Doris. I should be going in now," says Jon, and Gerry's got enough strength to get to his feet again and look across the street. 

The alley he collapsed in is in front of a small residential building, and he can just see the back of a messy haired head disappear behind a door as an older woman in a bright yellow cardigan begins to walk away. 

Gerry hurries across the street -who knows how long this burst of energy will last- but slows down before reaching the woman. 

"Excuse me?" He asks, trying for once to make himself look smaller and not threatening. Doris still eyes him warily, and he doesn't get any closer. "Did you come out of that building? My friend Jon lives there, but he's not picking up his phone. Do you know which one's his buzzer?"

That does the trick. Doris' mistrust evaporates like mist under the sun and she gives Gerry s perfectly pleasant smile. 

"Oh yes! The new tenant, I just met him," she says, clearly very pleased with herself. "He's in 4A, and he just came back home, you're lucky!"

"Yep. That's me. Perfect timing." Gerry smiles back, though he feels his eyelid twitch a little. "Thank you miss, have a nice day."

"Oh, you have a lovely one too! Tell your friend to eat something though, he's awfully skinny!" Doris pats Gerry's shoulder before going on her merry way.

Gerry chuckles a little under his breath, imagining Gertrude in Doris' flashy cardigan, wishing him a lovely day. 

Then, he goes back to the building, and jams his finger on the button labeled 4A.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jon closes the door to his flat behind him, and immediately collapses face down on the living room sofa. It's comfortable enough, but whoever the previous owner was left it smelling strongly of essential oils and Jon has to turn his face to the side to avoid choking on the scent of lavender.

He'd rented the place fully furnished, because he doesn't have the time nor the taste to actually fill up a place he's only been using to sleep. Or to lay in bed looking at the ceiling until it's light out again. Whatever.

It's been... hell.

Jon's not one to look at a gift horse in the mouth, and he's _very_ aware that waking up from the coma was his choice in a pretty literal way. 

Still, nothing's going as it should. 

Melanie has stopped attacking him on sight, but she still pulls out the knife if he gets too close to her. Basira says to just leave her alone, but that's difficult to do when one is quite literally sharing an office with her.

Then there's Basira herself. She spends all her time reading either books from the library or old statements she finds lying around, and she loses herself so completely in them she doesn't even seem to notice people around her when she does. Jon's tried talking to her about it, but she insists she's fine, and doesn't feel any different.

Jon also knows she's been seeing Elias at jail, but whenever he's gone to do the same he's been turned away without an explanation. It's not like he _wants_ to talk to Elias, but the man could at least do him the courtesy of answering some questions.

And Martin.

He saw him today, and Jon's willing to bet it's part of the reason he feels so drained. Martin looks... well.

He's not pale or haggard, hasn't lost any weight or started sporting any prominent eye bags like the ones Jon sees in the mirror every day. He keeps busy, rarely going down to the Archives anymore.

Always going through some file with a slight frown on his face, and all Jon can think of when he sees him is that Martin didn't use to frown so much. His face is too soft and too open for the gesture, and Jon doesn't like it. He remembers the slight nervousness, the uncertainty in his eyes and the curve of his lips when he opened the door to Jon's office with a steaming cup of tea, and he can't help telling himself that this too is his fault.

Martin is dealing with Lukas on his own to keep the rest of them safe, because Jon can't do it. 

Back when they were... friends, Tim used to say Jon didn't know what middle points were. Either he didn't care about something, or he went all in, no holds barrelled. He'd joked that had been what scared his ex-girlfriend away, and then apologized when Jon had gone too quiet too quick. 

The joke came back when they moved down to the Archives. "First you didn't even want to check out the place, now we can't get you out, boss. It's ridiculous," he'd said. Jon had rolled his eyes at him, because of course he wanted to keep working as much as he could, Robinson's 'system' was absolute chaos, and they were no closer to fixing it months after starting. 

"Now you care all of a sudden huh?" Tim had said that last night before the Unknowing. Jon had looked at him and had the thought that he couldn't remember the last time he saw him smile. "First we're all murderers out to get you, now you 'can't lose me too'. Typical Jon."

It's the last time Jon remembers hearing the joke, when it wasn't one anymore.

He's forced to concede the words some measure of truth, because he's been awake for two and a half weeks and all he can think of is Martin and the others, and how to protect-

_BZZZZZZZZZZZZZ_

Jon blinks.

He... doesn't remember giving anyone at the Institute his new address. They're not going out -can't go out- anyways, so it's unlikely to be them.

He guesses Helen could bring them in if she wanted, but the Distortion doesn't need any buzzers when it could open a door directly into Jon's living room.

So probably someone who wants to kill him.

_BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ_

They... don't seem to be giving up.

He should probably find a way to go out before they break in. Only he's in a fourth story flat, so that really only leaves the fire escape.

One way or the other, he has to do something before one of his neighbors goes to check. At least he can't die so easily now.

_BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ_

Jon sighs, before pushing and pulling and finally getting off the sofa and over to the panel by the door. 

He presses the button to speak to whoever it is downstairs.

"Hello?" he asks. Has he always sounded this tired?

"It's me. Let me in," says a grainy voice through the intercom, and Jon feels his eyebrows climb up his forehead. 

After he walked out of his office a week or so ago, he never thought he'd be hearing of Gerry Keay again. 

The voice at the back of his head -it's not really a voice so much as a tight bundle of Knowledge that sometimes feeds Jon with thoughts and instincts that aren't his own- wants him to open the door. 

Gerry was a gift for him, and there can be more if he plays along. Tim could be back. Daisy even. Sasha. It makes no sense to refuse what the Watcher has gotten for him, he _deserves_ it, for stopping the Unknowing, for saving the world.

Martin's slight frown flashes in his mind, and Jon's finger freezes on its way towards the button to open the door. 

This would be giving in, wouldn't it? 

And all Martin is doing, all he's going through will be for nothing if- Okay, Jon's not so egotistical as to actually think Martin is placing himself in danger just for his sake, but... But if he's fighting, if he hasn't given in, then Jon can't either. Jon can't-

_BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ_

Jon groans, and pushes the button. Martin will have to forgive him.

Gerry looks a right mess when John opens the door to the flat. His hair falls in lifeless strings by the sides of his sunken in cheeks, his clothes hanging off his frame like-

"Have you been eating?" Jon asks. The compulsion leaves a metallic aftertaste in his mouth, and Gerry gives him an unimpressed look.

"No. I've had snacks and stuff, but I don't get hungry anymore. Don't sleep much either." He shakes his head a little. "You don't need to compel me for that. Besides, I'm not the one who just woke up from a coma. Let me tell you, it shows."

Jon feels his face heat up lightly. It's not that he's purposefully not taking care of himself. It's just… he only really feels well when at the Archives, at least in a physical sense.

"Well, at least I've got an excuse," Jon crosses his arms over his chest. "So you don't need food or sleep anymore?"

Gerry only deigns to give him a shrug before going to sit on his sofa, leaving Jon standing there like an idiot in front of an open door. 

"Do you?" Gerry asks from the sofa as Jon closes the door. "Your sofa smells like an old lady." 

Jon shifts a little on his feet. Gerry's sitting on the center of the couch, knees spread wide and arms thrown over the backrest, leaving absolutely no space for Jon to sit. There used to be an armchair, but the landlord took it out before Jon moved in with some commentary about getting it reupholstered -Jon Knows he actually just took it back to his house, because it's very comfortable and he's wanted it for a while- and never brought it back.

After a moment, Jon sits on the coffee table, and when he looks back up he finds Gerry's staring straight at him, unblinking and with a raised eyebrow.

"What?" Jon frowns, flinching back a little as Gerry leans forward, shifting to rest his elbows on his knees.

"What else did it tell you? Gerry asks. "About me?"

"N- nothing!" Jon purses his lips shut and by some miracle manages to not avert his gaze.

"Jon, I admire your dedication to lying badly, but I have a feeling you're literally killing me right now." Gerry leans even further forward, now well and truly into Jon's space. The many metallic bits and pieces in his face catch the light coming from above in a very interesting way, and Jon chooses to focus on that instead of- Gerry's hand wraps around Jon's jaw, tilting his face up. "Focus." 

"That's very unnecessary..." Jon pushes out through squished cheeks and lips.

It's... been a while since anyone's touched him. Even more since he's been touched without harmful intent. 

He'd almost forgotten it was a possibility.

"I need to know, Jon. Please tell me the truth." Gerry's eyes are very intense this up close, and Jon has a second to think that maybe he finds the eye contact so unnerving because no one looks at him directly anymore, too scared of what he could see if they give him the chance. These eyes don't look scared. They look tired and pained, a perfect middle between green and blue that Jon doesn't think he's seen before. "Why did the Watcher bring me here?"

And he lets go of him slowly, softly. Like Jon is a wild animal he needs to keep from bolting.

He considers lying -badly, it seems- for about a moment. But the man before him has never done him that disservice, not even when Jon held his entire existence in the palm of his hand, and could've denied him his rest.

"It was... the Eye brought you back for me," Jon says after a moment that he wishes could've been longer. He feels disgusted even as the words leave his mouth, another confession to another slight against another person that deserves so much more than the life they're trapped in. "Some sort of- a present. Melanie wasn't too off the mark. It meant to entice me into serving."

Gerry makes a low, contemplative noise, and Jon looks up to find him worrying at the ring that wraps around his bottom lip.

It does not escape his attention, how _not_ surprised he looks. 

"You already knew?" Jon asks, frowning. Why isn't he more... upset? Tim would definitely have tried to deck him by now. 

Gerry stops biting at his lip and lifts a broad shoulder in a lazy shrug. "I had the suspicion, but I settled on it when I realized your voice gives me strength," he says. "And not in like the nice inspirational way, I think I was about to die again when you started talking to Doris."

Jon blinks. 

"My- when I what?" 

"It's polite to remember the names of your neighbors, Jon" Gerry rolls his eyes, still much too calm for the kinds of truths he's revealing. "She's got a great cardigan. Would suit you actually, if you wore bright colors. You rock the octogenarian look alread-"

"Gerry that was _just_ now! You should've- that's why you look so bad!" And now that he knows about it, he can see the effect of his words on Gerry. His skin looks less clammy, his eyes brighter, his cheeks less sunken and Jon feels _disgusted_. The Eye brought back a man who fought for a sliver of freedom his entire life, and it bound him to Jon in the absolute worst way. "Why- how come you're so... So okay with this?"

"How can you not be?" Gerry arches an eyebrow at him. "I literally cannot go away from you for too long, and you get a free sucker you can throw at the monsters."

"That's not what I want at all!" Jon exclaims, almost tripping over his words in his haste to get them out. "I didn't ask for- you can't possibly believe I would want-" Jon's voice grows weaker with every word, until he's left gesturing meekly at the space between the two of them.

Gerry's gaze on him feels almost searing, the weight of his judgement bearing down on Jon as the silence stretches by. Jon thinks of apologizing. This one in particular wasn't his fault, but hadn't Melanie said so? Everything happens because of him, every death and every wound a means to get him where the Beholding wants him. 

He's just opened his mouth, when Gerry snorts and lets out a bark of laughter.

"Oh man, you should see your face," he says after the initial burst, and Jon's head whips up mouth agape to find him looking down at him in amusement. "Nah, I know it's not your fault. These things... they work in their own ways. You gotta roll with the punches, then find a way to punch back harder."

"I-" Jon stops talking so abruptly he nearly bites his tongue off, when a heavy hand lands on his head and messes his hair; like it needs any help.

It occurs to him that he never expected Gerry to be this... tactile. Maybe because he never expected to see him in a way that would allow contact, or because of the whole goth, aloof persona. 

"Wipe that look off your face, come on," Gerry says once he stops assaulting him, and he drops down on his back, swinging his legs over the sofa's armrest like he owns the damned place. "You're making me feel like I killed your puppy. Do you have a statement lying around? I could still use a pick-me-up."

Jon stays there for a second, watching him in shock. Another thing he didn't expect Gerry to be was optimistic. Kind. It's weird to remember that under the cynicism, the snark and the eyeliner is the man that saw a young woman marked by the Lonely, and put his life on hold to try and give her the tools to survive.

"Uh- Ok. Yes, I have one." He gets up from the coffee table to find his briefcase, wherever he left it. "Are you sure this is alright?"

"It's not. But you've got to know by now it could always be worse." Gerry shifts on the sofa, burrowing more comfortably on the loose stuffing and letting out puffs of lavender.

"That's... not reassuring." Jon comes back with the statement on hand, and hears the click of a tape recorder switching on somewhere in the room. Gerry's now taking the entire sofa for real, so he sits back on the coffee table after a moment's hesitation.

"Didn't think so. Do you do the voices too? Gertrude said it was an Archivist thing, but I always thought she was just dramatic." Gerry crosses his arms under his nape, and Jon is quite lucky his eyes are closed like he's about to hear a bedtime story, because otherwise he'd see his face flushing again. Maybe taking AmDram classes is part of the requirements to be an Archivist. "Give me the spook, Jon."

Jon rolls his eyes, before clearing his throat. Gerry does look a bit healthier, and he knows from experience how replenishing a statement can be. If this can make things a bit better... then it's worth it.

"Statement of Pamela Moreno, regarding a visit to her childhood home...."


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

"I thought you were going to do your own thing," Basira says when Gerry walks into the Institute with Jon next Monday. "Was he hiding with you?" she adds, giving Jon a pointed look.

"He wasn't hiding, just- he's been staying at my flat," Jon mutters. It's interesting to see he doesn't try to meet her eyes when he speaks. Gertrude definitely never had that consideration with anyone, and Gerry doubts Elias does either. Just another little way Jon is different from the Beholders that came before him.

Basira arches a thick eyebrow in suspicion. "Why?"

Gerry's not about to just let it out in the open that he now literally feeds off of Jon's voice, especially to one of the women that was so adamant on killing him on his very first day back here.

"I didn't exactly have a place to live," Gerry says before Jon himself has any chance to respond. Basira's big, deep brown eyes latch on to him with such intensity Gerry doesn't even need to See to know the owner of the mark on her soul. "And I like Jon."

"Do you now?" Basira's gaze turns skeptical, and Gerry gives her a shrug.

"Don't you?" he asks back.

He knows the question was a mistake almost immediately, from the way Basira's expression shuts off.

"We'll just- I have some things to work on," Jon's voice breaks the silent stare-off. His hand is slightly raised towards Gerry, like he was going to reach for his forearm but then thought better of it. "Gerry's going to be assisting me with some research, Basira. We'll be in my office, if... in case anything happens."

Gerry gives Basira one last look before he follows; she's watching Jon go and her expression is stony, but her eyes look troubled. In the end she just turns around and leaves, and Gerry's left thinking he's missing some sort of context.

"In my defense," Gerry starts saying as soon as he closes the door to Jon's office, "she was supposed to say yes."

Jon lets out a weird little noise that could pass for a laugh if it didn't border on hysteric.

"Not your best guess by far, I'm afraid." Jon sits down behind his desk and starts booting up his laptop, apparently unaware of Gerry's eyes on him.

Gerry stays by the door, arms crossed and brow furrowed as he watches Jon. He's... a bit awkward, yes. And a danger magnet, considering he visited America exactly one time and somehow ended up both tagged by the Stranger and trapped by the hunters. And he does look like he's constantly having a nervous breakdown and has forgotten what food and sleep and combs are.

But, see, Gerry has known bad people. 

His mother is still a shadow well pushed against the back of his mind so he only ever thinks of her accidentally. He's met avatars that take a perverse delight in feeding their patrons, instead of merely doing it to survive. He's seen humans at their lowest, when they'd gladly throw others into the line of fire to get a few extra seconds to run. Gerry knows bad people. 

And Jon isn't one.

Gerry spent enough time with Gertrude to know that getting close to Archivists is a surefire way of getting killed, and he's also painfully aware he barely has any reason to trust Jon.

But he looks... lonely. Not capital 'L' lonely, but still enough so that Gerry can't just let the matter rest. 

"You're not unlikable," comes out of his mouth before he can stop it. Jon's hands still over the laptotp keys. "I'm also getting the feeling no one here likes each other, so maybe don't take it personally."

It takes a few more seconds for Jon's fingers to go back to tapping a tuneless melody on the plastic keys, and Gerry guesses that's all there's going to be. Just a little moment of encouragement that didn't quite land as he hoped it would. He still kind of wants to defend Jon for some reason. It's either some sort of Eye thrall, or leftover loyalty for the only person who's ever respected his wishes.

After a while, Gerry moves to pull a chair to sit on, and grabs a statement from a file box next to Jon's desk. Apparently these are the fake ones, because it narrates an encounter with a demon duck that Gerry suspects was only a regular pissed off goose chasing off a group of very intoxicated young adults.

"We used to- we liked each other, before," comes Jon's voice by the time he reaches the statement' thrilling conclusion. Gerry's still getting used to this, and he still can't tell how much of the soothing warmth comes from Jon's words feeding him some kind of monster energy, and how much is just the fact that Jon has a very nice voice. "Or they did, at least."

"You didn't like them?" Gerry asks without looking up from the paper. Jon keeps tapping away, the sound lulling in its repetitiveness. 

"I never tried to- they liked each other." Jon's voice tastes like a confession. Gerry wonders how much of it is true, and how much is only Jon's perception. "My assistants at least, Basira and Melanie never quite- they're different."

"I would have never guessed," Gerry says, because he can't think of anything else. 

The silence broken by the tapping on the keys stretches for another long pause.

"But- but thank you, I guess." Jon pauses in his typing. "It was... a nice try." 

He looks up at Gerry with gratitude in his dark eyes and the smallest, saddest hint of a smile in his cracked lips, and a single thought flares up in Gerry's mind so suddenly it surprises even himself.

_Fuck._

\----------------------------------------------------

"Hey," Melanie drops a paper Krispy Kreme bag on top of whatever bullshit it is Basira's reading right now. If she's lucky, the grease will stain it so bad Basira won't be able to read it anymore.

A much better alternative than ripping it out of her hands and tearing it into a million pieces. Every time she sees Basira do anything but hate this place Melanie feels her blood _boil_ and her hands itch to _hurt_.

Basira frowns at the bag, before looking up at Melanie. "How did you get this?"

"Helen dropped me at the loos," Melanie shrugs. Basira goes to open the bag, and Melanie feels her near-constant irritation soften when she sees her lips twitch as she pulls out a chocolate frosted doughnut from the bag. "I was craving something sweet. Had to guess at what you'd like."

"Hm. It's been a while since I've had one, thanks." Basira toasts her with the pastry, and Melanie smiles. That's right. Basira is... not her friend, but not her enemy either. They're both trapped here. Melanie doesn't have to protect herself against her. "Helen's still in the tunnels?"

Melanie takes a seat across her and reaches for a doughnut as well. She hates red velvet with a passion, but she got one because she's been thinking of Georgie lately, and those are her favorite.

"She says she likes them." she bites into the doughnut. She still hates it. "Any news about our other resident abomination?" Melanie still refuses to believe the thing that woke up at the hospital is Jon, but it's getting harder to keep up with every day that passes because he's just.... Jon.

If anything he's become more quiet, trying to blend into the background or hiding behind a statement, like keeping up the appearance of productivity will somehow make him seem more human. 

"He's fine. I guess." Basira frowns at her half eaten doughnut like it's personally offended her. "I've been thinking."

"Mm?" Melanie chews the red velvet viciously. If she has to suffer it, then it has to suffer her too. Basira's eyes are heavy on her, and she looks up from her phone when she can't stand the staring any longer. "What?"

"You're going to get mad ," Basira says carefully. "Not that you aren't all the time, but-"

"Just say it," Melanie rolls her eyes, already feeling the rising irritation prickling at her mood. "I'll keep it in."

They both know what _it_ is, the memory of the Flesh's creatures squirming and crying out at her hands still fresh in both their minds.

Basira waits another moment, until Melanie rolls her eyes and pulls out her knife from her jacket and hands it over to her. 

"I'm- I think we're going about Jon all wrong," Basira says finally. Melanie arches an eyebrow. "I think... maybe that's why the Eye brought Keay back."

"Basira, either you're not making any sense or you think you've given me much more context than you have."

The other woman huffs angrily, before pinching the bridge of her nose. 

"We- Is there anyone Jon is close to anymore?" Basira asks. "Martin is up with Lukas, Tim is dead, you said your friend isn't talking to him... you make it no secret that you'd turn on him at the first wrong move, and I'm- I used to like him."

"Oh fuck, did you really?" Melanie frowns. Logically, she knows Jon is not- she knows people can like Jon. Georgie certainly did once. Tim too, if he was actually saying the truth when they got drunk in the freak's office while the doll had him kidnapped. Martin does, or did as well.

She expected Basira to have a bit more sense though.

"Not at first. I was- it was a trap. I gave him Getrude's tapes because I wanted him to trust me, we thought he'd killed her and we wanted him to slip."

"We?"

Basira seems to deflate at the question.

"Daisy and I. She... she was very interested in him from the start. I guess now we know why." Her lips curve into a dry, humorless smile. "But he was actually nice. Weird, awkward. Bit paranoid. But nice enough. He made jokes sometimes."

"I'm sure they were hilarious," Melanie mutters through gritted teeth. The conversation is setting her on edge, her hands white knuckled around the edge of the desk.

"Oh they were terrible. But seeing him try was funny." Basira's lips curve into another soft smile, but this one makes Melanie want to scratch at her face because she's smiling at the fucking monster that dragged them all into this. "Mel. The desk. You said you'd keep it in."

She _hates_ that nickname so much. The boys at her high school used it to mock her, and it always makes her feel small and soft, like she's not being taken seriously.

Basira takes her seriously. Melanie knows this. Basira doesn't mean it in the way they did. She doesn't know, because Melanie won't tell her, because a nickname is just that and it doesn't affect her at all. It's just a name. Just-

"Okay. So he made jokes that were bad. What's your point?" Melanie only looks back up once she's got her breathing under control. It was only a slip.

"The point is it doesn't matter if we like him or not," Basira marks her emphasis on the last part, but Melanie's not too convinced anyways. "What matters is we don't want him to turn full monster. I've read about other avatars, Melanie. You saw Hopworth, you know how they can be, when they're truly gone."

"So what? The power of _friendship_ is going to turn him human again?" Melanie snarls. "We have a sleepover and do each other's hair and that will fix-"

"Well I don't know, Melanie!" Basira snaps back, and Melanie actually stops at that. It's so rare to see her lose her cool. "All I'm saying is that it's very suspicious that the Eye decided to give him a new best friend right now. We don't even know what Keay _is_."

And they really don't. Melanie's been watching Gerard Keay ever since he came back to the Institute last week. He walks Jon in every morning, then goes away for the rest of the day and comes back just as Jon is leaving in the evening. 

She followed him once, and saw him hurry up after a man dressed in construction gear and grab him by the shoulder to lean in and tell him something, before going to beat the snot out of the avatar of the Buried that had been following the poor sucker for three blocks.

Whenever they meet, he keeps his eyes on her and his back to the wall. He somehow always seems to know where she's carrying the blades that day, but it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that he knows Melanie's dangerous, and treats her as such despite towering over her and probably doubling her in weight, despite all his experience in fighting beings made out of fear.

Melanie likes Gerard Keay precisely because he does not trust her. 

"Does it matter?" Melanie asks. "If he becomes a problem, I-"

"I think it does matter, because right now he and the statements are all the influence Jon has," Basira points at the closed door of Jon's office across the room. "For all we know he's encouraging Jon to be- well, worse."

Melanie arches an eyebrow at her words. She'll rip Jon's heart out before pretending to be his friend. Maybe it'll be enough to kill him for good and they won't have to worry about this anymore. 

"And what do you want to do about it?"

Basira sighs.

"Nevermind. I don't know what I expected," she says, defeated. 

"A sounding board?" Melanie's irritation evaporates as quickly as it boiled, now that Basira has stepped back. "Good luck with that!"

"You could at least _try_ you know?"

"I really couldn't," Melanie gestures with a smile at the crescent moons her nails dug into the wood of the desk. "Think of me as a backup plan. When you fail, I'll deal with him."

Basira groans, and digs into the bag for another doughnut.

\----------------------------------------------------

It's raining heavily by the time he leaves the Institute.

Jon huffs a little as he walks towards the front door, wondering if Gerry had the good sense to buy an umbrella while he was out there doing whatever it is he does, because Jon certainly didn't think to grab one this morning when they left.

It definitely still feels a little unnatural to think of Gerry living with him. Of course it's not like Gerry _wants_ to be there, but Jon is very aware that he's the reason Gerry's alive and therefore homeless, and he's not about to kick him out when he does need a place to stay the night. 

It's also very comfortable to not be alone, he thin-

That's when Jon bumps against something soft and warm and firm, and promptly bounces back and trips over his own feet. His reflexes are lackluster even at the best of times.

A large hand clamps down on his forearm before he actually goes down, and Jon uses the support to right himself.

"Jon?" says a soft, open voice, and Jon freezes. 

"M- Martin!" This is great, this is amazing. He hasn't seen Martin in two weeks and he had to literally run into him _now_ that he looks a right mess and... and of course Martin doesn't care how he looks, that's- why is he even thinking about that? "I'm- How are you?" he asks, and the unnerving, heavy pressure on his stomach intensifies.

"Oh? Ah, I'm just-" Martin averts his eyes from him, and Jon feels himself deflate a little. Sure, no one really looks at him in the eye anymore, but the fact that it's Martin makes it a different kind of painful. "I'm...fine?"

"You look fine." Too fine almost, for someone who's been hanging around Peter Lukas for months. Jon takes in the soft curve of his face, his full cheeks, and his strong brows. His sad green eyes behind his glasses. Jon's stomach tightens even more. He really has been blind.

"I... I have to go now Jon," says Martin, and only then does Jon notice how long he's been standing there in silence just _staring_ at Martin like a creep. 

"Would you- I mean we could-" Jon stumbles to get his words out because Martin is _here_ and they're technically outside the Institute, and he can't just _let him go._ "Uh- a coffee? Just-"

"I can't- Jon I've really got to go," Martin sighs. "Here, take my umbrella, I'll grab a taxi." 

"I'm- it's ok. Gerry has one, he's just around the corner." He Knows this suddenly, only really hears the static after the words come out of his mouth. "Uh- you've heard about Gerry?" It occurs to him that not everyone has supernatural means of knowing things, and it's been a while since Martin last went down to the Archives. "Gerard-"

"Peter told me, yes." Martin opens his umbrella with a single, practiced push to the runner. "Get home safe Jon," he says, giving him a last over the shoulder look before walking out into the rain.

His eyes are grey.

\----------------------------------------------------

Jon is suspiciously quiet as they walk to the bus stop on the way to the flat that evening. 

Gerry's spent the last two nights out looking for people to help, and he's starting to run low on juice, so he'll have to sit this one out. The rain hopefully means there'll be less people out on the streets, and while he knows the entities can reach people at home just as easily, he also doesn't really want to be out there getting soaked. 

"Who was the marked guy?" Gerry asks as he tries to keep the umbrella over the two of them while accounting for the fact that Jon is trying very hard to not step into Gerry's space. "The big one with the glasses."

That makes Jon stop walking, and Gerry has to hop aside to not bump into him.

"Watch it, I'm going to run you over next-"

"Is it the Lonely?" Jon looks up at him with tired eyes, like he already knows the answer. "I... guess I should've seen it coming," Jon says after Gerry's silence extends a minute too long. "That's- he's Martin."

The name in Jon's voice tastes like devotion when it slips into Gerry. Ah shit...

"I'm going to guess Martin is not an easy subject." Gerry watches Jon's face for a reaction. "Do you want to like... talk about it? I know a good Chinese place nearby."

Jon's lips curl into a humourless smile. "You don't eat."

"I do. Just not Chinese." Gerry guesses it'll make a good side dish at least. "You don't have to tell me. But maybe I can help."

"I don't think Martin wants anyone to help," Jon says instead of answering.

The rain's starting to come down harder. Gerry looks down, and the boots keep him pretty much dry, but Jon's trousers are already starting to soak up water from the splashing sidewalk. 

"C'mere," he grabs Jon by the shoulder and starts moving again. 

If anything, Jon looks a little less miserable holding a hot cup of jasmine tea, even when he's telling a very sad story about a man who took a new job without knowing what he's really agreeing to.

"-and I- of course I don't like it. But Gerry, I _have_ to trust him. He's- it's the least I can do. The least he deserves." Jon's expression is almost desperate, like he expects Gerry to disagree with him. "He's doing this for a reason, and I already- look where not trusting people has brought me. I made a choice and... and I have to stand by it."

After all this, Gerry thinks he's formed a pretty solid idea of this Martin, and his conclusions are not too favorable. Gerry's spent his entire life pulling people out from this world, and this man is arrogant enough to think he can waltz in and come out unscathed. 

Still, he doesn't mention it. Gerry's not unobservant by any means. The whole marked by the Eye thing helps, he guesses, but even a blind man could probably see how bad Jon's got it for his former assistant, and bringing a less than stellar opinion to the table is definitely not going to do any good.

"Lukas is dangerous," Gerry offers. Nothing Jon doesn't know already, and probably nothing that will help soothe his worries, but it's the truth. Jon deserves that. "But at least your Martin doesn't seem too far gone yet."

"I- he's not _my_ Martin," Jon stammers out, his flushed face noticeable even under the harsh yellow lights of the restaurant. 

Gerry chuckles. Jon's not a bad looking man, under the unkempt exterior, and he's definitely much gentler than he shows at first. He can see why Martin liked him. He can also see how Jon didn't notice. 

"Of course he's not." Gerry makes his eyeroll as exaggerated as he can, and it has the desired effect of making Jon go even redder. The tea's gone cold long ago, and the server already brought back Gerry's untouched food in a take-out bag. 

Jon is avoiding his gaze by studiously looking at Gerry's fingers where he's taping restlessly at the table. The tattoos, probably. They've always been -excuse the joke- eye-catching.

"Let's go to your place," Gerry days after a moment, and Jon's face whips up as if startled. "You okay?"

"I- yes. You're staying tonight?" Jon asks, lifting an eyebrow. "It's raining." 

Gerry guesses he technically doesn't have to, Jon's recounting of his transformation into the Archivist was enough to top him off. 

But Jon looks... oddly hopeful under the questioning look. And it would be a pretty bastard move to have him lay out such a personal story and then just leave him alone. 

Gerry looks out the window at the distorted reflections of the streetlights. "Yeah, I think I could stay," he says, and pretends not to see how Jon's entire stance relaxes on his seat, the little satisfied curl to his lips.

He can _definitely_ see why Martin liked him.

\----------------------------------------------------

There's really no reason why Martin should keep coming down here to brew his tea.

Elias', now Peter's, office has an en suite kitchenette, and it's just inefficient for Martin to make the trip down to the Archives' break room every time he wants a drink.

But -and he guesses this is the main reason he'll have to stop coming down here- this place feels like home in ways that hurt, but also remind him just what he's doing this for.

This is where he and Sasha and Tim sat down and planned Jon's birthday party, because Jon never really came here so the place was basically theirs. They had a whiteboard with ideas and lists littered here and there with Sasha's little doodles.

"Oh no, trust me. He's a cake guy," Tim had said with one of his trademark mischievous smiles. "He can pretend he isn't, but you'll see."

Martin had been so jealous back then, because he often forgot Tim and Jon were friends and Tim actually knew things about Jon and hung out with him and- it all feels very silly now. Like something that happened to someone else while Martin watched. He wonders if it's the Lonely's effect or just the PTSD from the past four years. 

He sighs when he comes back to the present and looks down to find he's preparing two cups instead of one, before he goes to return the extra one to the cupboard. Those days are over. 

It's probably for the best.

That evening a few days ago, Martin was far too close to saying yes. A coffee date on a rainy day with the man he loves is everything Martin would've wanted some years ago, but he made a deal with Peter, and it's the only way to keep Jon-

"So you're Martin?" someone asks behind him, and Martin just about flings the cup into the sink out of surprise. 

He turns around to find a man looking him up and down with a raised eyebrow, like he's evaluating him and Martin isn't scoring too well. The man is nearly as tall as Martin is, with broad shoulders and tattoos and at least three face piercings, and Martin is pretty sure he knows who he is even before he gets to the truly awful dyejob.

"And you're Gerard Keay, aren't you?" Martin asks as he gets his pulse back under control. "I didn't know you were here."

"I'm not usually, I have better things to do," Gerard says none too gently. Martin is... very surprised to find he doesn't care too much that this man finds him lacking. He just wants to be left alone. "But I'm checking on you. For Jon."

It would be so much easier to save the world if Jon hadn't chosen this moment to care about him, Martin thinks. "Did he-"

"He doesn't know I stayed. I usually just drop him off." There's something casual about the way Gerard says this, and Martin's stomach prickles with irritation. He should be glad Jon's got someone keeping an eye on him, especially since he apparently hasn't moved into the Institute like Basira and Melanie. If two archival assistants -however reluctant- can't go out without half the entities trying to get a piece of them, the Archivist probably shouldn't either.

He's not too glad.

"So what do you want?" Martin crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the kitchenette counter. 

Gerard takes a step towards him. Martin tilts his chin up, the way Tim used to do when he got into fights with Jon. He probably doesn't look nearly as intimidating, but he hopes it'll come across as a warning. 

"I don't know what you're playing at," Gerard takes yet another step into his space, his eyes hard and narrowed. "But you better have one hell of an anchor, Blackwood, or you're not going to like what happens."

Martin feels something hot and ugly climb up into his chest from the pit of his stomach. Who does this guy think he is? He doesn't know the least of it, he has no idea the sheer amount Martin is sacrificing for-

"That's very nice. Thank you for the advice," he says through gritted teeth. "I don't think I owe anyone an explanation though, least of all you, Mr. Keay."

Gerard lifts a pierced eyebrow, unimpressed. "What about Jon?" 

"That's what you're here for, isn't it?" That's what Peter had said. Well not exactly, Peter had taken it as some kind of blessing from the Watcher, a new way to convince Martin to isolate himself.

"See?" Peter had said, "the Eye knows how important our mission is. He doesn't need you to keep worrying about him," like it hadn't become as natural to Martin as breathing by this point. But if it keeps Peter away from Jon, so be it.

"Ugh. Listen, I don't care for your little soap opera, Jon is worried about you and-"

"I don't care," Martin cuts into whatever Gerard was about to say. Of course Jon is worried, of course Jon _cares_. If anything, that's Jon's biggest problem. "And if you ask me, not minding your own business has historically ended very poorly for you, so I'd advise against it. Excuse me," he says before walking past the other man. He thinks about shoulder checking him just to be petty, but the thought of touching another person triggers a deep feeling of revulsion.

Peter would be proud, he thinks as he makes his way to his office, tea-less and bristling.

"That was a splendid display." Sure enough, Peter's voice comes from behind him right as he reached the office. Martin looks right in time to see him slipping out of the fog. "I must admit, I've been worried you keep going to that break room out of some sense of nostalgia, but it seems to be making you more lonely, so by all means keep doing it."

Martin hates that he's right.

"Mhm. I'm going to need you to sign some papers today," Martin knows better than to engage with Peter unless it's absolutely necessary. 

Peter chuckles, and Martin knows every move he makes is playing right into his hands. It's what he wants, but it doesn't mean he likes it.

He thinks of Jon, to try and remind himself of why he's doing this, but the thought brings less and less comfort every day.


	3. Chapter 3

**III**

Jon Knows the door to his office will open about a second before it does, but he still flinches a little when Gerry barges in and slams it closed behind him.

"I thought you'd left for the day," Jon smiles a little as Gerry drops heavily on one of the chairs before his desk. "You're in a mood huh?"

"I don't like your Martin," Gerry says, crossing his arms over his chest. The eyes on his elbows look at Jon as his face grows hot.

"Please don't call him that," Jon mumbles. Gerry's real eyes are also fixed to his face, and Jon only grows more flustered at that. 

"Met him just now at the break room. He's got a good bite- are you sure this is the guy that spent two weeks hiding from Prentiss?" 

"Very," Jon says dryly. It's still a sore spot for him; he should have known that wasn't Martin, he should have-

"You could do better." Gerry's still frowning something awful, and Jon can't help the tired chuckle that escapes his lips. "What?"

"I really couldn't."

"Oh come _on_!" Gerry shakes his head. "Of course you'd think that."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jon frowns, but Gerry only rolls his eyes and looks to the side, the chair's front legs lifting off the floor as he leans back on it. After a few more minutes of silence, Jon resigns himself to spending an undetermined amount of time with a grown man sulking, and goes back to finishing his emails.

Jon's not too used to being quiet around Gerry, probably because when Gerry seeks him up it's because he needs Jon to feed. The silence feels odd, and Jon finds himself stealing glances across the desk from time to time.

Gerry looks like a statue, completely still except for the ring around his lower lip that periodically shifts against the flesh, glinting almost hypnotically under the cold lights of the office. 

"He used to- he was always looking after me, you know?" Jon doesn't really know why he's telling Gerry this, other than he needs him to understand that Martin is so much more than what the Lonely is making of him. Gerry's teeth flash into view as they bite and pull the silver ring. "He went through the trouble of getting some of Prentiss' ashes, so I'd feel... safe."

"Hm." The ring flips a little more aggressively, Gerry's lip pushed pursed and pressed under a slightly chipped -from a mosh pit when Gerry was sixteen, the Eye informs helpfully- front tooth.

"And he was always making sure I had something to eat and that I took breaks even when-" his voice falters a little, and licks his bottom lip in a thoughtless mimicking of Gerry's movements, "-even when I was acting like a tool and stalking them all because I was sure they were trying to kill- Gerry!" Jon stops abruptly, when an index and middle finger each lay on the sides of Gerry's bottom lip and his tongue flicks between them in a _very_ suggestive way.

Gerry's only response is a loud bark of laughter, and if Jon's face was warm before when talking about Martin, now it's positively boiling.

"W- are you twelve years old?" Jon stutters out, feeling the keen burn of embarrassment in his stomach. Gerry, mouth is curled in a devilish smirk he remembers from when Tim used to joke around and tease him, and the corners of his eyes are crinkled in amusement. "You're ridiculous."

"You were just _so_ focused," Gerry cackles, and the chair's front legs land again with a heavy thud. "It's ok. I still don't like him, but I'm not going to try to convince you. I'll just keep an eye on him."

"...I've come to learn stalking people doesn't bring great results, but suit yourself," Jon grunts, focusing on his computer screen again with a dark frown. 

The chair creaks, and Gerry's eyes peek over the edge of the laptop's screen. Jon scowls, and Gerry pushes the laptop closed with a hand, his chin resting comfortably on the other. 

"It's rude to ignore your presents, Jon. The Eye might start to think you didn't even want me back." Gerry's still sporting that infuriating smirk, and Jon narrows his eyes.

"Personally, I'm starting to think you're more of a punishment, Gerard." It's too hot in the office; it wasn't so hot before. Jon stands up to make sure the radiator is turned on, and grabs the box of real statements from the shelf on his way back. "Now, I have work to do, unless you want to keep distracting me."

Gerry lifts his hands in surrender, and Jon rolls his eyes. It's still too hot in the office, but a statement should make him feel better. A tape recorder clicks on in one of his desk drawers.

"Alright then. Statement of Sergeant Terrence Simpson, regarding an outbreak of violence in the crofting community of Lancraig, Ross-shire..."

He does in fact feel better after reading it, at least in a physical sense. In all others thought, it's… an absolute downer.

"Slaughter is nasty," Gerry offers, and Jon almost jumps on his seat. He was so focused on the statement he completely forgot Gerry was there. He's made himself at home with his legs on the second chair and his arms behind his head. "Normally the Fears go one on one, but you get a single wielder into the mix and suddenly you have tens of dead or injured."

"Yes... honestly I'm very surprised Melanie has kept it under control this time," Jon nods. Gerry's head whips towards him, and he gets his feet off the chair. Jon pays him no mind, following his train of thought instead, "with that bullet still in her leg, pumping her up with violence and- w- did I read that somewhere?" 

Gerry leans across the desk. Jon can hear the static now, but he keeps his eyes fixed on Gerry's as the man gives him an encouraging nod.

"Ride it," Gerry whispers, "let me hear it."

"W- well yes. The- the bullet. From her trip to India." It's much easier to let the Knowledge out when he's telling it to someone else. "It didn't show in the scans, in any of them, but it's still there. Just above the tibia and getting infected-"

Gerry nods. His entire demeanor has changed, Jon notices. His brow is furrowed, his shoulders tense. This is most definitely not the man that teased Jon into a flustering mess just an hour ago.

"We'll get it out," he says. Jon doesn't doubt him, but he also doesn't know exactly what to expect, and he definitely doesn't want Melanie dead or- or worse.

"I need to get Basira," is all Jon says before climbing to his feet and hurrying out the door.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Melanie's sleeping. Basira knows the cocktail she has every night is enough that she won't hear them unless they're deliberately loud, but she still worries. Melanie's dangerous under the best circumstances, and Basira can't tell she's too keen on her waking up and finding Basira looming over her with Jon and Gerard Keay of all people.

"The guy said you'd need to hit the right nerve or it won't work," Basira hands over the syringe and takes a step back. "You know much about-"

"Here," and he points to a spot on her leg that looks perfectly unremarkable to Basira.

She arches an eyebrow. "You sure?" she asks, then when he nods, "ok, go for it then."

"Right," Jon takes a deep breath, and leans over Melanie's limp form. Basira cringes a little; Melanie's her friend, but-

"Pray the injection doesn't wake her-"

"Yes _thank_ you, Basira-" Jon's increasingly annoyed voice is cut off when Keay slaps a hand down over his mouth.

"If the injection doesn't wake her up, you will. Just poke her," the man says in a hoarse, tense whisper. Basira blinks in surprise when Jon lifts a hand to pull Keay's hand from his mouth but doesn't actually push it away.

"... Okay," is all Jon says before he pushes the needle into Melanie's leg in a single move that seems almost practiced in its certainty. Keay waits only as long as it takes for him to slip the needle out again to pull Jon back. "Now... now we wait."

"You better be right about this," Basira says as she sits down with her back against the wall. 

Jon looks at her with a pained grimace, like he wants to smile but knows she doesn't want to see it. "I am."

He and his shadow sit against the wall across Basira, and she takes the opportunity to watch them. Jon's sitting partly turned towards Melanie, which leaves his back half exposed to Gerard Keay, and he doesn't seem too worried about that. 

Basira somehow doubts Jon had an easy time being touched even before the multiple kidnappings and attempted murder, so this has probably got something to do with the Eye, making him feel like he's safe in Keay's presence so he grows even more distant from other humans.

She's been... trying. She greets him back when he comes into the Archives, waves goodbye while trying to ignore the boiling jealousy that he gets to go home still. She wasn't lying to Melanie; once upon a time, she liked Jon. 

But Basira still can't forgive him for surviving when Daisy didn't. 

Every time she sees him it feels like he's stealing a breath Daisy should've had. Like some cosmic power placed them both on a balance and decided Jon was more important before it took Daisy away without leaving even a body for Basira to mourn over.

She knows she's being unfair, and she doesn't like it. She's better than this, more objective. So she tries harder.

"I should've noticed before," Basira offers tentatively, an olive branch that Jon jumps on much too quickly. Once upon a time it would have been endearing.

"No, of course not. You didn't know Melanie before..." he makes a vague gesture pointing at his leg, "a- and she's very uh- assertive. Even without the Slaughter, I think it would've translated into violence once you all started being in danger and there was no one else to... protect you." He seems to catch on to what he's saying, because he looks away almost immediately.

"Hm," is all Basira says. She should've known this would bring her back to Daisy. Everything does. She can feel Keay's eyes on her, and she focuses on not fidgeting. He doesn't scare her.

"You... you're living here too?" Jon asks after a moment, his voice dubious like he doesn't know if he's allowed to continue the conversation after he ruined it once. 

"It's not safe out there. I got a camp bed by the tunnels," Basira shrugs. "I like to keep an eye on them."

"I... see. And- and Martin?" Jon asks. Keay makes a sound like a groan behind him, and Basira arches an eyebrow. Jon however, seems much more interested in a loose thread in his sock.

"I think he's still got his own place. Whatever he's doing for Lukas seems to be enough to keep him safe."

"That's... not ideal," Jon tells the floor in a voice so low Basira can barely register it.

"No. I guess it isn't."

Neither one of them is too interested in conversation after that, and when Jon finally looks up and says it's time Basira hops up to her feet immediately. It's been a long thirty minutes.

"The scissors, please," Jon extends a hand to her.

"I thought you had the scalpel?" Basira scowls. Surely he's not planning on cutting her leg op-

"For the trouser leg!" Jon snaps in an exasperated whisper.

"Oh- right," she hands them over.

Jon snips at the fabric until the trouser leg falls away, and he takes a deep breath.

"God... look at that," he mutters. Basira feels every hair on her body stand on end, as a familiar static begins crackling around them. Jon's eyes are giving off a faint green glow as he looks down at Mel, before he turns to face Keay. "Can- do you see it?"

"I see the mark," Keay shrugs. He looks normal enough, no eerie glow or sharp teeth or anything, but by now Basira knows not all the monsters are that obvious. 

"It's a leg," she says dryly. 

Jon shakes his head. "It's all rotten inside."

"See the bullet?" she asks. Jon nods, and she tilts her chin towards Mel. "Get it out then."

"Easy to say... she's probably not going to swing at you," Jon tightens his grip on the scalpel.

Basira doesn't try to contradict him because while she's sure none of them will be safe if Melanie wakes up, she's even more certain Jon is going to be the first target.

"Here we go..." 

And then Jon is sinking the knife into Melanie's leg, and then his _fingers_ , and Basira heaves a little when he pulls out a bright gold bullet dripping something black and slimy.

That's when Melanie wakes up.

"GET OFF ME!" Melanie's first lunge sends their makeshift operation tray crashing to the ground.

"Oh Jes- get her, she's- she's not supposed to be-!" Jon yells out, taking a hurried step back and crashing into Keay.

"Melanie, it's alright!" Basira tries to reach her from the back- a chokehold won't calm her down, but it'll keep her still.

"Jon, get back-"

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" It must be the Slaughter's residual effects, because there is no way Melanie's slight frame has enough strength to shake Basira off this easily- "I'LL KILL YOU!"

Basira sees something silver glint in her hand as she lunges at Jon, and she screams. "She's got the scalpel!"

Jon screams when Melanie stabs the knife into his shoulder. Then she's pulling back, and Basira knows she'll go for the throat this tim-

The dry slap of a punch against flesh cracks over them and Melanie backs down, dizzy enough that Basira can wrap her arms tightly around her torso and arms.

"Run!" Basira yells, but Keay's already half carrying, half dragging Jon away towards the exit.

The bullet sizzles as it burns a hole straight into the floor of the Institute.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If whatever Jon and his friends did at the Unknowing didn't destroy it outright, the Anglerfish could take some notes from the Archivists, Gerry thinks. For a couple of avatars that gain absolutely nothing from having people devoted to them, they're both especially adept at luring them in.

Gertrude knew perfectly well what to give people in order to ensnare them. Gerry never did fall for the dainty old lady image that she so carefully cultivated to make both avatars and assistants drop their guard, so she never tried it with him. 

It kept him from ending up like Michael Shelley, but of course that only made her come at him from another angle. 

He knows now she never cared for him. Not as a person; not enough to not mutilate his body and tie his soul to the book and then not even take it back with her. But at the time it was easy to let himself believe this woman could give him at least some of the things his mother refused. 

Sometimes during their trips, when they were just having supper at a small roadside restaurant or another, Gerry found himself stopping and marvelling at how _normal_ it felt. 

"Decaf for my grandma please, she's very delicate," he'd tell the server of the day and smirk at the way Gertrude's eyes gleamed dangerously from the other side of the table.

"My grandson's paying," she'd say at the end of the meal when the bill landed on the table, giving the server a sweet little smile like she hadn't just poured a couple hundred pounds of concrete onto a woman with as many arms as she had fingers. "He's always treating me, a real sweetheart," and Gerry would have to burn some more of his emergency cash on a meal.

At some point he started believing 'normal' was 'real', and when Gerry tasted acid on his tongue and smelt burnt hair before his body started seizing, the most reassuring thought in his mind was that Gertrude was there with him as he reached a hand to her. 

He doesn't know if she took it.

Jon is a different story. It's difficult not to notice when one spends every other night at his flat, but Jon is so alone that Gerry's a little surprised to find none of the ten marks he bears belong to the Forsaken.

Jon flinches when Gerry touches him, and Gerry knows he should stop, that not everyone is ok with it, but Jon never really seems uncomfortable, just... surprised.

Jon smiles very rarely, but when he does he almost always looks down, like he doesn't want you to see it. His smile is a bit lopsided, his teeth a little crooked and there's a worm scar right at the edge of his lip. It's a good smile, in Gerry's opinion.

Jon takes up an eternity to dress up every morning because his right hand only barely works, and Gerry can't bring himself to offer to help because Jon always mutters little apologies for the delay and he thinks it would only make him feel worse.

Jon greets Melanie and Basira every morning and says goodbye every evening, even when Basira's the only one that responds and even then only sometimes. Gerry can pinpoint the days she doesn't because he comes out looking a little more deflated.

Getrude had her assistants, Decker, Leitner, Gerry himself and half of the avatars moving across a chess board only she could see. Jon has a man willingly feeding himself to the Lonely -allegedly- out of love, and a poor imbecile who apparently can't resist people who are as broken as him.

"How's your shoulder?" Gerry asks as though he can't see the bright pink new skin through the loose neckhole of one of the oversized shirts Jon wears to 'sleep'. "Wounds from the Slaughter take a while to heal."

"I'm- I think it's doing fine," Jon fidgets with his sleeve a little, before going to sit at the opposite end of the sofa. "Martin's still avoiding me."

Jon's voice is perfectly calm and unaffected, and Gerry knows it's full of bullshit. He reaches to lay a hand atop Jon's head consolingly.

"Still not your Martin?" he asks, only the slightest bit teasing. It still manages to bring a pained little smile out of Jon. 

"Not anymore, in any case." Jon sinks back against the sofa's plush backrest, his head heavy against Gerry's hand. "Basira told me his mother died while I was in the hospital. I didn't even know."

"If Lukas is keeping him isolated for some reason," Gerry doesn't say 'asides from sacrificing him to his patron' because he's not insensitive, thank you very much, "it makes sense he can't just come into your office to talk feelings over a cup of tea."

Jon sighs. "It's not his fault. I- it's selfish."

"How is caring for him selfish?" Gerry arches an eyebrow. His hand in Jon's hair moves the slightest bit, only enough to ruffle through it softly.

"Because I'm not caring for him. I'm caring about what he thinks of me. If I- I should respect his decision," Jon finishes lamely, pulling his feet up onto the sofa to circle his knees with his arms.

"You are. It's not a crime to miss someone you like." Gerry never had a cat, but he imagines this is how it feels to pet one. Careful not to move too much or too abruptly lest he shatters the fragile trust he's managed to build. "They- if they don't want to save themselves, you can't do it for them, Jon."

Jon's head tilts sideways so that he can aim his big dark eyes at Gerry. "We saved Melanie."

"And look what it got you."

"It doesn't matter what happened to me. Melanie is... recovering. That's all there is to it," he says, and Gerry has no doubt Jon actually believes it. "Are you going out tonight?"

Gerry's not stupid by any means, and he knows a diversion tactic -and a request for space- when he hears one.

"I'll see you in the morning," Gerry says before climbing to his feet. Jon's muttered 'be careful' follows him through the door and prompts a small smile out of him. 

Jon is easy to grow fond of, or maybe Gerry just doesn't learn from his mistakes.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's almost midnight when Melanie wakes up from a fitful sleep. It was probably the nagging hunger, so she sets to digging around the fridge for something she can put together with minimal effort.

"That's a good bruise right there," says a familiar, amused voice. Melanie smiles. Helen doesn't usually manifest her door outside the lower levels of the institute, but Melanie hasn't gone back down yet, choosing instead to sleep on a sofa at the makeshift infirmary Basira set up for her in the break room. She must be worried.

"I think he almost dislocated my jaw," she says as she turns on the sofa to face Helen's distorted, ever-changing form. "Jon's new boyfriend has a good hook."

"In my defense, I was only trying to knock you out. Is that the Distortion?"

Both of them turn at that, and Helen's long fingered hand wraps itself protectively around Melanie's shoulder. Melanie's pleasantly surprised to notice the touch doesn't trigger the mix of irritation and rage it did just a few days before. Now she's only grateful to have Helen by her side as she looks up at Gerard Keay.

"Michael knew you," says Helen, tilting her head to the side a few degrees further than a human could reasonably go.

"Only a little," Gerard shrugs. "Before he became you. Who are you now?"

"I am me. But Helen is also me."

Gerard nods. "Sans Getrude in the mix, I'm guessing a sacrifice that outsmarted you somehow?"

Helen's smile curls at the corners, her eyes swirling with delight when Melanie looks up to check on her. 

"Michael was getting distracted. Archivists have that effect, I've found."

"And Helen doesn't get distracted?" Gerard asks.

Helen's smile keeps growing and curling into itself, but she doesn't respond. Her hand tightens around Melanie's shoulder.

"What do you want?" Melanie knows there's a knife behind her. A blunt one, only good for spreading mayonnaise or butter, but it's still a knife and she's still aware of it. Her feeling for these things has diminished over the past two days, but she figures it'll be a long time before it's gone. If it ever is.

"To check on you, mostly. You didn't go full avatar, but that bullet still did a number on you."

Melanie's fist clenches by her side. "Well, no need to worry now. I'm back to being inoffensive little old me." The truth of it aches at her like a bad tooth. Logically, Melanie knows the bullet was bad, and that it made her terrible and feral. But she'd been... powerful. She'd driven out the Flesh's creatures by herself, she'd saved everyone. And now the power is gone, and she can lie to Basira, but not herself.

She misses it.

"Yeah, right. I doubt that." Gerard gives her a wary smile. "The Slaughter goes for tigers, not kittens. But without that thing inside you you should at least be thinking more clearly."

"...I am," Melanie responds after a moment's hesitation. She's not quite sure she buys that the Slaughter only powered up what was already inside her, but... this guy would know, wouldn't he? "How- how is he?"

"Healing. A statement or two and he should be right as rain," Gerard frowns a little when Helen chuckles behind Melanie. "Do you know something we don't, Helen?"

"You know the answer to that question." Helen's smile looks angular now, like they're looking at it in a fractured mirror. 

Gerard rolls his eyes and shakes his head, before turning to Melanie again.

"He'll be happy to know you're feeling more like yourself."

"I still don't like him," Melanie crosses her arms over her chest, "don't give him any ideas."

"As if Jon would ever willingly believe anyone likes him," he smirks, but it's a soft, amused smirk Melanie's seen before on people talking about Jon- _seriously_ , what do people see in him?! 

Do Georgie and Martin and this guy just have some sort of... disaster human fetish? And that's another problem because if Georgie does have it, that doesn't say anything good about Melanie herself, one way or the other.

"How do you not... hate him?" Melanie asks. Whatever Gerard thinks about Jon, there ought to be some resentment in there. 

"Jon?"

"No, the bloke that keeps leaving used spoons next to the sink, _of course_ I'm talking about Jon!" Melanie snaps. He's got to be making fun of her, it's the only explanation. "You died, you were dead and you wanted to be dead and now you're back in this fucking mess!"

The man lifts a pierced eyebrow. "It wasn't Jon who brought me back."

"But it was because of him! We're all trapped here because-"

"Because Elias is an asshole?"

"Elias isn't here!" Melanie snarls. Helen's hand tightens around her torso again, from shoulderblade to clavicle, and Melanie thinks if the bullet were still in her she'd be at Gerard's throat already.

"If you're going to blame Jon for all that's happened to you, you might as well blame yourself for knowing Jon." The absolute bastard has the gall to shrug at her. "That's how much choice he had in the matter, or how much you did."

"So what, you're saying this was going to happen one way or another?" Her teeth grind as she tensed her jaw. "That we had no choice?"

"Oh no. There were definitely choices involved," Gerard seems to sense she's about to jump at him, because he readjusts his stance a little. "Jon chose to take on the promotion at work. You chose to come and give your statement. Your friend here chose to open the door-"

"Leave her out of this. She couldn't have known what would happen if she opened it, _I_ couldn't have known coming here to tell a story would end with me being- being turned into some kind of monster!" By the time she's finished, Melanie's panting for breath. Hot, angry tears burn at her eyes that she _won't_ let spill.

"There you have it," Gerard says simply. "I was born into this mess. You pushed a domino and ended up here. Not everyone is Martin Blackwood."

"What's that even supposed to mean?" At some other point she'd find this hilarious. Two men pining over an absolute mess of a monster. As it stands, the only thing she feels is the slightest wave of protectiveness towards Martin; because she's known him the longest out of the two of them.

Gerard shrugs.

"Jon may trust him... but Martin knows what he's doing. And I don't trust anyone who chooses this willingly," he says, averting his gaze. "I knew a woman who did."

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Martin doesn't like to think of Elias at all, much less in positive terms. He has to admit though, that unlike Peter, he at least knew something about running an institution. Peter disappears for days, sometimes weeks at a time, and when he does show up all he cares about is how Martin's self isolation is going. 

He caught him talking to a tape recorder a few days ago, and Martin had to sit through another lecture on how this is for everyone's good, including Jon, and he's been doing a wonderful job but needs to work harder and... Martin had lost interest after that, the gist of it is the same every time. 

As long as Peter believes it's working, he'll leave Jon and the others alone.

Martin sits down before the two steaming mugs -he keeps brewing an extra one on reflex-, and pushes his glasses up to his forehead to rest his face on his hand. At least the Archives' break room is free again, after Melanie recovered from whatever it was that happened to her leg.

There's a very familiar click below the table, and Martin's lips twitch into a smile.

"Hello there," he greets the tape recorder when he bends down to retrieve it. He places it behind Jon's cup of tea, and it does make him feel a little bit better. "Not doing anything really interesting right now, but you can stay if you want."

The tape whirs away, and Martin nods at it.

"Yep. Just taking a break, Peter can get really exhausting, but you've heard him before, I'm sure you know." It's a fun little exercise, pretending the tapes talk back to him. It still makes him feel very lonely, but in a different way. One way or another, this is Jon here with him. "Not really, I mean if what he's been saying about the Extinction is true then we do have a bigger problem in our hands but _God_ , sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. He doesn't even know his email password, you know? Has to change it every time he logs in, I think by now we're up to Tundra22. One would think the head avatar for a supernatural entity would be a bit less incompetent."

The tape recording gives two little clicks, and Martin chuckles. 

"Yes I know, but Jon could at least log in to his email, even if Sasha was always guessing his passwords. But you're right, maybe it's an avatar thing." He takes a sip of his tea; this is the most at ease he's felt in days. "How is he doing by the way? I guess it's good he's not alone, he makes... really poor decisions when he is. Or when he thinks he is- remember when he dug my Mum's letter from the trash? What was he thinking? I wasn't going to confess to a murder over a letter, much less throw it in the bin!"

Click.

"Yes, fear makes us do stupid things, I know." He rolls his eyes, feeling a wave of fondness for the man. "I just... I wish I could talk to him. But thinking about it, I don't even know what I'd say. 'Hey Jon, did you hear me when I read to you at the hospital? I missed you at the Institute, but at least it was very reassuring to know where you were instead of wondering if you'd been kidnapped again'? Not great conversation starters."

Click. Whirr. Click. 

"I mean... I want to think so, of course. But I don't know if you can really think when in a coma, much less miss someone. I- if he wanted to miss me of course!" Martin is such a mess, getting flustered at his own imagined conversations with an inanimate object. "I'm just- I'm going to get back to work, I've already spent too much time talking to you."

A series of accusing clicks.

"Don't give me that. I know you can just pop into my office whenever you want anyways," he gives the tape recorder his best stern look. "Go back to him, come on. Before he decides to... I don't know, go find another ritual to stop and almost gets himself killed again."

The click this time sounds amused to Martin's ears, and he chuckles as he climbs to his feet.

"Yeah, alright. You can- you can keep his tea. It's not like I'm going to drink it anyways."

He walks out of the room before he can convince himself to stay. He really does have things to do, and the last thing he wants is for Peter to come find him.

Inside the break room, a door opens that hadn't been there before, and a long fingered hand snatches the tape recorder from the table.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure many of you saw this already but check out [Everchased's amazing art for chapter two](https://everchased.tumblr.com/post/615888662339764224/brave-as-a-noun-fanart-for-chapter-2-of-illicio) because I screamed for minutes.
> 
> Trigger warning for some very lightly mentioned domestic abuse and sexual assault (molesting of a minor). During the first POV.

**IV**

Nighttime at Jon's flat is a strange ritual.

The first variable is whether or not Gerry will be staying, which has been happening more often lately. On those nights, Jon usually grabs the first thing that catches his attention from his bookshelf and sits on the coffee table or the carpeted floor -all of Gerry's teasing about his 'old lady sofa' doesn't stop him from hogging it for himself- to read aloud.

"I thought you didn't sleep anymore," he says whenever he looks up from the pages and finds Gerry stretching out mid-yawn.

"I don't need it." Gerry's voice gets hoarser and more relaxed after these naps. "But the experience is still nice." Which must also apply to the many times Jon's seen him picking at a bag of crisps or sipping a cup of coffee. 

Jon doesn't mind. He enjoys his reading, and it's nice to see Gerry at ease; Jon doubts he had many chances to just sit back and take a nap before, and it's... it's nice to feel like he's a safe space for someone.

"If you're going to doze off anyways, we could move to-" Jon stops himself a moment before finishing the thought, after catching the arched eyebrow and the amused glint in Gerry's eyes. "Nevermind."

"No no, by all means ask me to your bed, Jonathan."

Jon sighs, "I don't know why I even bother, _Gerard_." Gerry scrunches his nose at the name and Jon rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. It never feels like Gerry's making fun of him, and it makes him miss Tim -the Tim from _before_ , when Jon hadn't ruined everything yet- a little less.

On the days Gerry's not around, though, Jon has to find other ways to keep himself distracted from the hunger.

It took him a while to notice, probably because the statements were all he needed for a while. The warehouse worker had been an anomaly, something Jon tried not to think about. He'd been out purchasing some groceries, compelled another random shopper on accident, and it had been just his rotten luck that the man had a story to tell. 

Then, the day after Melanie's... impromptu surgery. Jon had read statement after statement trying to relieve the ache of the wound on his shoulders, but each had brought only the feeling of a cool breeze on a burn; enough to lighten the pain but not doing anything to heal him.

He'd thought the stroll would clear his head and it had almost done so, until he'd seen her. Long brown hair falling over her shoulders in loose ringlets, a wrinkle of worry on her brow and a birthday card signed by all her co-workers wishing her a great day tomorrow. 

The scalpel wound had been covered in new skin by the time he'd gone back to the institute, and Jon knew he'd be seeing Zaida Mossen in his dreams.

Sometimes he watches TV, picks a documentary and tries not to Know the next piece of information before the narrator says it on screen. One time he tried looking at old photos on Facebook, but he ended up Knowing his primary school best friend is now trapped with three kids and a woman that beats him every other night, and that his secondary school teacher got away on a technicality after he was found molesting a student. He closed the app before he could come across a picture with Georgie or Tim in it.

Overall, he avoids sleep. 

The nightmares were just that, before the Unknowing. He could focus on the fact that he didn't want the visions and he'd wake up soon enough, to try and drown out Naomi Hernes' screams. To ignore the resigned, sad gaze of Karolina Gorka when she lay down next to the old man crushed by the chair. He can't do that anymore.

Tonight Jon is tired after days of Knowing little details unwillingly, and sustaining himself only on old, stale statements. He sits on the edge of his bed and looks through the window to wait for the sky to lighten outside, because he knows if he lays down he will sleep, and if he sleeps he will See.

_Dr. Elliot's fear tastes of desperation. He'd been respected, an expert on his field, he'd only taken the class as a favor. Now he holds out an apple spilling endless teeth around him, begging for someone to take it. He knows they all think he's mad._

_Helen Richardson -the real one, one of Jon's biggest screwups- has an aftertaste of madness, which makes sense considering the entity that claimed her. She'd been so scared of losing her grip on her mind, because she'd always been so sharp, so... consistent. Sometimes she looks at him over her shoulder before she opens the yellow door._

_Tessa Winters has a flavor Jon recognizes well. She regrets clicking the link and downloading the file, and she's scared she started something without an end, something that will keep tormenting her forever. She has never watched the video again in real life, but every night she tries to turn off a screen in which Sergey Ushanka's gums bleed around the chewed up glass._

_They know he's watching them. The new ones scream at him for help, the older ones have given up. Both reactions bring Jon a feeling of bliss before he looks up at his patron and the cycle starts again._

"Hey," comes Gerry's voice as Jon's bedroom door creaks open. "Ready to- oh. Didn't know you were sleeping, I- are you alright?"

Jon blinks up at the ceiling, confused. The pillow is soft below his head, he feels replenished, and he Knows of at least three other people between here and the Institute that he could hunt down and add to his archive.

The edge of the bed sinks beside him, and a curtain of Gerry's hair shields Jon's face from the rising sun as he leans over him. 

"Jon?"

"I'm- it's alright." Jon's voice is hoarse from sleep too, but where Gerry's is pleasant and calming, his sounds like he's been gargling on gravel. "Just nightmares, is all."

The corner of Gerry's lips twitches into a side smile, but his eyes are sympathetic.

"That's our bread and butter, isn't it?" he asks. The punishing sunlight hits against Jon's eyes when he stands up, the bed bouncing back a little at the lack of pressure. "Let's get you to the Institute, some statements will make you feel better."

The bedroom door closes behind him, and a long, tired sigh blows past Jon's lips.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gerry counts seven members of the Church of the Divine Host on their way to the Institute. Funnily enough they stand out like sore thumbs in daylight, even without him using his Sight. The closed eye pendant makes something in his stomach coil with irritation, but he ignores it. He knows perfectly well by now that this is the Beholding rearing up at the perceived slight.  
For larger than life beings of cosmic horror, the entities are pretty much just angry cats swatting at each other _very_ ineffectively.

Jon gives off a little grunt; he's much more ensnared in than Gerry, so he supposes it makes sense.

"Come on now, don't go picking fights with any more entities." Gerry gives his shoulder a little push as the bus rolls to a stop. Jon complies, but he turns to face Gerry as soon as he hops on the street with him.

"Excuse me? I don't _pick fights_ with-" Jon's massive lie fades off into indignant blustering when Gerry wraps a hand around his right wrist and brings his hand up to eye level, giving it a little shake with a raised eyebrow. "W- well that's different, have you met Jude Perry?"

"Yeah, and she gets along fairly well with other avatars. Even Gertrude never went around looking like she stuck her hand in a deep fryer and Perry hated her guts." The burn scars on Jon's hands are silky smooth when Gerry runs his thumb along the skin. They feel like his own. "If she did this to you, I'm going to go out on a limb and say-"

"I did _not_ compel her," Jon interrupts him with the most pompous, offended voice. Gerry gives his wrist a little squeeze, grinning. Jon sniffs, and Gerry can see the corner of his lips twitching. "But I did try a whole lot."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you," Gerry cackles, letting go of his hand. "But you're right about the Dark. They're growing bolder, I think we're going to get a visit sooner rather than later."

Jon gives him a side look with a curved eyebrow. 

"We?" 

"Well yes, who else is going to lull me to sleep with his dulcet tones and _extremely_ specific facts about the Russian Revolution?" Gerry rolls his eyes. "If the Dark comes for you, they come for me."

Jon doesn't say anything to that, but he looks extremely pleased for the rest of the walk to the Institute. It's very endearing, Gerry thinks with a smile as he watches him descend the stairs into the Archives. 

"Oh my God." Gerry turns at the sound of the voice, and finds Melanie shaking her head at him.

"What?" Gerry figures if anyone here is going to get offended at his lack of manners, it's definitely not going to be the woman that was a death away from becoming a physical incarnation of violence. 

Melanie rolls her eyes. "Nothing. You're going out?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Okay. I'm going with you, you're going to explain some things." She doesn't wait for an answer, moving towards the front doors instead. Gerry blinks a couple times, trying to process the turn of events, before he follows after Melanie.

They end up at a little park a good way away from the Institute, and Gerry can't help but notice that with every step Melanie takes away from the building her posture relaxes, and so does the ever-present frown at her brow.

"So... What is it that you wanted me to explain?" Gerry asks after they've sat down against a tree trunk, away from any passersby. They must make a terribly stereotypical sight, a cute little couple out on a date instead of a woman on a mission and her hostage. 

Melanie looks up at him, her dark eyes especially striking behind her brightly colored bangs.

"What am I?" She asks. Then, like the thought just occurred to her, "I'm not like him am I? I mean, I didn't- I can't heal from statements or make people tell me things or-"

Gerry shakes his head. "That's an Archivist thing, and there's only one of those."

"So I'm what? The Assistant? Because that's a pretty lame title and I don't care for it." Melanie gives him an unimpressed stare, and Gerry chuckles under his breath. Either she's very likable, or he just has a soft spot for blunt people.

"Nah. If anything, you were going to become an avatar of the Slaughter," he says, gesturing at the bandaged spot that he knows is under her trousers. "I call them wielders, but the Beholding is really the only one that has titles for its avatars. I think that's why no one likes them, too presumptuous."

"Them?" Melanie asks, "aren't you one too?"

"Not really," says Gerry, feeling a shudder run down his spine. No thanks. "But I'm marked by the Watcher, just like you."

Melanie takes a deep breath, clearly trying to keep her patience. "Didn't you _just_ say I was an avatar of the Slaught-" she gives him a furious glare, when Gerry slaps a hand over her mouth. 

He pulls it back before she can decide to bite a few fingers off. "Don't go proclaiming that stuff. These things take that seriously and Jon didn't almost get himself killed so you could invite the Slaughter in again." 

Melanie rolls her eyes. "Fine. What does 'being marked' mean then?"

"Well, just that really. It's when an entity had a grip on you at some point, usually because you ran into an avatar or a monster," Gerry shrugs, twirling one of his rings around his finger just to have something to do with his hands. He doesn't like talking about these things too much; too many years playing database for the hunters has left him very wary of people who want his knowledge. "Some marked people get abilities, like me. Some grow into full avatars, some don't. It really depends on the person, and whether or not the entity thinks they're a good fit."

"And the Eye doesn't think you are?" 

"I don't really care about knowledge as much as I care about using what I know to help people. I'm also marked by the End, but again, not a match." He gives her a disappointed pout, and her mouth twitches. "There's really no limit to how many entities can mark you, other than your bad luck I guess. Jon has like ten marks on him."

"Ten?" Melanie arches her eyebrows. "Why so many?"

"A week ago he only had nine," Gerry gives her a pointed look. Sure, she wasn't herself back then, but he still remembers the small, exhausted grunts of pain as he helped Jon peel the blood soaked shirt off. 

Melanie looks forward and her lips purse in a way that could be either sheepishness, or an attempt at holding a smile back. Knowing Melanie, he doubts it's the first one. 

"Well, I couldn't eat solids for two days after," she says in the end, and Gerry rolls his eyes.

"You were going to kill him. For real." He hadn't even thought before throwing the punch, because the only thing in his mind had been getting her _away_ from Jon.

"Okay, okay," Melanie waves a hand as if trying to bat the topic away. "I'm sorry for stabbing your boyfriend."

Gerry doesn't bother correcting her, just like he didn't that night at the break room. As long as they don't figure out his relationship with Jon is truly parasitic, they can think whatever they want. 

There is, however, a lie he will call out. On principle. "No you're not."

Now Melanie smiles for real, even letting out a little huff of amusement. 

"No, but I _know_ I should be sorry. That has to count for something, right?"

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Basira hates a lot of things about the Institute. 

For example, how she can feel herself changing with every word she reads on the damned books she can't put down to save her life. How she's trapped inside the building, and the only time she really braves the outside is when she goes and outruns whatever monster of the week is waiting for her because she _feels_ Elias has something to tell her. How the building seems to have been designed with the sole goal of making its inhabitants as unnerved as possible. 

She hates every corner and every brick, every dark room where the light switch is placed _just_ out of reach when you first walk in, and how it always feels like someone is watching-

"You were there," says a rough accented voice, and Basira freezes on her spot. The light switch is three more steps to the right, she knows this room, she can- 

A large hand wraps itself around her neck and pulls her away from the door. The door closes behind her, and Basira no longer knows how far it is to the light switch. She's never been in this room- is this a room?

"You're not doing that. We're friends, you and I. We don't need to see each other." The voice evokes a sense of familiarity within Basira, but something inside her is _screaming_ at her, a primal urge to fight or flee. "Don't you remember me?"

"I do not know you," Basira says dryly, and the voice laughs in delight. A man, she's pretty sure it's a man... unless it isn't? Maybe it's a woman. Or neither. She should- she knows this person.

But didn't she just say the opposite?

There's some steps behind the door, so there must be a door. If there is a door, and there are steps... Then there has to be other people. People she knows. People who are real. Is she not real? If she knows this person, and they're not real, then maybe she isn't either.

But... but no. She has to be real, because she opened the door. Doors are real. They go to real places -most of them at least- and that must mean this is a place, and it's real. If it's a place, then she can... Basira frowns, feeling like she's at the edge of something, if she could just..."This is a plac-"

"Don't say a word." The hand tightens around her throat. It doesn't feel like any human hand Basira has touched before, only Basira suddenly isn't so convinced she _has_ touched any human before. Or perhaps she has and they all feel like this. Does she not feel like this because she's not human?

The door opens, and the tenuous light that makes its way into the room is enough to chase away the shadow of uncertainty in Basira's mind. 

This is the Institute, she's Basira Hussain, and she's in danger. That's all she needs to get to work.

"Jon, don't turn the light on," she orders, her voice calm and steady. "Go and find Melanie, quick."

It isn't until she gives the order that she remembers Melanie no longer has the bullet, and Elias's stupid voice comes to haunt her. _You lost Melanie_.

"It's alright Basira. I know he's here." Jon's voice is like she's never heard it before. No warmth, no hesitation, no sign of the man that measures his every word to try to not hurt anyone, and ends up doing so anyways. She can barely see his silhouette where he's profiled by the light behind him, but she can see his eyes emit the eerie green glow they had that night by Melanie's bed.

"So what are you doing?" she asks.

Three steps. Click. 

Jon looks at some point behind and above Basira's shoulder.

"I imagine he's here to deliver something." Jon's words are punctuated by a low thrumming static. "Let her go." Basira can feel each word vibrate with power, and the hand around her throat starts trembling as the creature fights the compulsion 

It's enough for her to twist out of its grasp. She doesn't go stand by Jon, but moves in his general direction until she's closer to him than she is to the... thing.

It looks like a man. It has all the parts. Skin, face, hands. It is not a man.

"Is- the deliverymen," she blurts out the realization as soon as it comes. 

"Delivery _man_ ," Jon says by her side. Once again she's taken aback by the coldness of his voice, and the way his eyes are fixed on the being. "Which one are you?" he asks, and the glow from his eyes pulsates once as the static rises.

" 'm Breekon," the thing says immediately, then takes a step backwards. Jon takes a step forward and vaguely in Basira's direction, and she realizes he plans on stepping between them.

"And where's Hope?" The static in his voice remains, and the thing squirms a little more, clearly uncomfortable.

"Hope's gone," says the monster. 

_'Tell me about it,'_ thinks Basira, before she takes a deep breath.

"And what? Are you here for revenge?" Hope turns to face her as she speaks, and stays silent. Jon gives a tired sigh, and repeats the question. It takes a few more seconds, like the fact that Breekon isn't holding eye contact -if it even has eyes- delays the compulsion. It's not enough to stop it.

"Yes. Like when we- when I put the mutt in the pit," it says, and gives something at his feet a little kick. It's only then that Basira sees the rough wooden coffin with its rusted chain and the scratched warning on top. "It knew where it was going, I think. It was scared of it. Never seen a hunter scream like that." 

Breekon gives a dark chuckle, and Basira feels molten hot rage spilling from her stomach, prickling at her eyes. Of course Daisy was scared of the fucking thing, she saw it in her dreams every other night, Basira would know. Her hand itches for her gun, but Jon's voice comes before she can even begin reaching for it.

"Easy, Basira." It's not compulsion per se, and his voice does get softer when he spares her the quickest glance, but Basira still bristles at the words. What right does he have to ask her to hold back and be reasonable, when he's been trying to corral Martin into talking to him whenever he'll stand still for long enough?

"Daisy's in there?" She asks instead, just to confirm. She cannot go into the coffin, her mind's clear enough to push the desperate thought away but... but she needs to know.

The monster turns to her again, and huffs in what she guesses is amusement.

"Answer her," says Jon calmly, businesslike. Breekon shudders.

"Nikola should've killed you faster," it says, and Basira gets the feeling he's trying to stall for time. Probably just to get on their nerves, because what is there to hide when he's already told them? "Sure. Whatever's left of it at least. Go find it for all I care."

"Why are you here?" Jon asks again, taking another step between Basira and the deliveryman.

"Hm. Dunno. 'S not much to do without Hope around," the monster shrugs. Out the corner of her eye Basira sees Jon stiffen. She remembers Daisy doing the same at times, freezing like a hunting dog with prey in its sights. "We've always been together."

"...Jon?" Basira reaches out to touch his shoulder, but he doesn't react. The glow in his eyes is brighter now, and Basira's pretty sure he's stopped breathing. The static in the room gets louder, and she snaps her head towards Breekon, her hand now firmly on her gun. "Get out."

"Make me."

" _Stop_." Jon's voice reverberates all the way through Basiras' bones, and she and Breekon freeze.

"Jon, what are you doing?" Basira doesn't try to touch him again. His form appears too sharp somehow, like those pictures that are so high quality they seem unreal, and his eyes look glassy and green as Breekon squirms under his gaze.

"Wh- stop. Stop it." Breekon moves strangely, like he's trying to take a step back but he's stuck to the floor. Basira has a flashback to the butterflies and moths pinned to cork boards at her secondary school, their wings spread wide and their bodies exposed for everyone to look. She shudders. "Stop looking at me!"

" _No_." Jon's voice echoes inside Basira's head, and her vision goes white. She has the briefest sense of satisfaction as she hears Breekon scream and gasp, and she's aware only part of it is bitterness over Daisy. The other is some sort of instinctive pleasure; she guided Jon here, the Archivist needed this information and she found Breekon for him to See, she- she scowls. That's not her. 

That's not her at all. 

The room reforms around her piece by piece as she shakes her head and her vision clears. She sees Breekon's heel disappear behind the door, before Jon is stumbling towards the closest desk.

"Get me-" he starts to ask, but Basira's already offering a pen with movements that aren't entirely her own either. His eyes are back to normal, but Basira only stays for long enough to see him start scribbling on a notebook page, before it becomes too much.

She makes sure not to turn her back to him as she leaves.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The thought is almost too weird for her, but Melanie finds herself enjoying the little excursion. She does wonder why no one -nothing- has targeted them yet, but she doesn't get attacked when she's out with Helen either, so maybe the monsters are just opportunistic bastards and don't like to risk it when the odds aren't in their favor.

Gerard is very easy to like, for someone so infuriatingly fond of Jon. Melanie finds herself thinking they could've been friends, if they'd met under different circumstances. 

As things are now, she's far too aware of the way his eyes keep drifting towards the Institute, even though they've walked far enough that the building is well out of sight and behind several twists and turns. 

"Are you feeling him?" she asks when they finally climb to their feet after a few hours of fear talk. The question is somewhat awkward in her mouth; she doesn't like Jon, but Gerard does, and she's decided she likes him enough to not want to offend him. The desire to _not_ hurt still feels foreign in her mind.

"Mm? Oh. Not really," Gerard shrugs, looking down at her. "I don't know? I just know where he is. Like the general direction."

"Hm. That would've been useful last year, he got kidnapped like three times." Melanie pats the back of her shorts to get rid of any dirt and grass that decided to come up with her. 

"Did he now?" And yeah, the urge to maim someone is back with the fond little smile on Gerard's face. "And he has the gall to say he doesn't get into trouble."

"Well, he does. What now?" she asks, opting to only bump his shoulder with hers instead of punching his arm. This guy can be as infatuated with a supernatural disaster as he wants, and she won't feel any strong way about it. No violence here, no siree, Slaughter who?

"Well... we go back, I think? Unless you have more questions." Gerard looks at her as he shoves his hands into his pockets. Melanie deflates a bit; it _is_ a nice day, and she gets very few chances to leave the Institute. 

They do end up going back, but Melanie makes a point of stopping for ice cream on the way back. Gerard gives in suspiciously quickly, and Melanie finds herself liking the guy more and more. 

Her phone buzzing with an incoming text from Georgie as she's handed her double caramel scoop only makes this an even better day. 

"That's a big smile," Gerard comments as she taps away at the keys. She looks up at him disbelievingly, but there's no indication he realizes how much of a hypocrite he's being as he calmly sucks on his cherry ice lolly.

"The nerve." Melanie rolls her eyes. "It's my- a friend."

Gerard bites off a chunk of the ice lolly, and it does more to convince Melanie that he's not human than the fact that he walked back from the dead. 

"Sounds complicated."

"I'm trapped at Spook Central because of her ex boyfriend, it _is_ complicated," Melanie mumbles. Georgie's one of the few good things left in her life, and she's determined to keep her away from this horrible, horrible circus. "Besides, not all of us get wingmanned by an eldritch entity."

"She's Jon's ex?" Gerard arches an eyebrow as he leans forward to try and peek at Melanie's phone.

"Do you have selective hearing or something?! Get back!" She punches and shoves at his shoulder until he retreats with an amused smile. The act doesn't leave a taste of metal in her tongue, she's surprised to find. Or a craving for more, harsher action. It only feels... companionable. Almost playful. 

Melanie had forgotten what it felt like to be friendly with someone.

She'd never say it aloud, but if she counts Georgie and this guy -and even Martin whenever he's not being a bitch and a half because he's on a Secret Mission- Jon doesn't have terrible taste in people.

There's a man coming out of the Institute, and Gerard's arm shoots in front of her chest to stop her just as she realizes it's not a man at all.

"Is that-"

Gerard nods. His frown melts away after he looks at the building again, head tilted as if hearing a sound Melanie can't register.

"Fuck," Melanie mutters under her breath. Of course this would happen now, after the bullet is gone and on the one day she decides to go out. "There's another entrance at the back, let's-"

"They're alright." Gerard sounds thoughtful as he watches the creature stumble its way into a side street. "Beholding marks don't suit the Stranger well, it seems." 

She looks up, and the smile on his face looks dangerous, somehow.

"Jon?"

"Did a right number on it." There's a hint of dark pride to his voice, a polar opposite to the ridiculously soft demeanor he usually adopts when it comes to Jon, and Melanie finds it that she much prefers the absurd fondness to whatever _this_ is. Basira's words from a few weeks back play through her mind, and she remembers she still doesn't know what Gerard is. Or why the Eye brought him to Jon. "Go check on them, I'll finish it off."

"I'll come with you," she decides in a split second. "I can still do it."

Gerard turns to look down at her, and whatever it was that made her stomach knot in worry is gone so fast Melanie wonders if she imagined it in the first place. There's a dubious frown on his brow, and his mouth, still dyed red by the stupid lolly, is pressed in a tight line.

"I don't doubt you could," he says after a moment. "But I don't want you to. Don't invite it back in, remember?"

She does, but she also doesn't trust the shadow that passed over him not a minute ago.

"Then I won't do it. But I- I need to watch," she tries again. "Or I won't be convinced it's gone."

Another long moment of Gerard measuring her up, before he finally nods. 

"If you need it," he says, leading the way into the side street the monster took. Melanie follows with careful steps.

She likes Gerard, but she's not naive enough to forget she's been wrong before.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Basira walks into the windowless room, Elias is reading a celebrity gossip magazine, and she wants to rip his eyes out 

"Good evening, Det-"

"Drop it," Basira interrupts, and Elias' thin lips curl into a smile. Her hands curl into fists, to keep from wrapping around his neck. "Breekon came to see us yesterday. He brought-"

"The coffin, yes." Elias nods. "I must admit it was quite pleasing to see you work with Jon so seamlessly, Basira. But I suspect you're not here for my praise, are you?"

Basira advances on him until she's looming over his sitting form, and she bristles at the calm look he aims at her. 

"I hope you're not so surprised to know Miss Tonner is alive?" He arches a carefully shaped eyebrow. Of course this _bastard_ uses jail to catch up with his beauty routine. "Surely you know by now that the Eye rewards those who are loyal."

So that confirms that.

"That's what Keay is then? A reward for Jon?"

"Oh, he didn't tell you?" Elias tsks in disappointment, shaking his head. "One would've thought he'd learned to be honest to his team by now." His poison green eyes focus on Basira's face again. "Well, I guess it can't be fixed... Despite my best efforts, you never did bond."

"Shut _up_!" Basira snaps finally. Bond. Like they're a cute little group of misfits in a TV show instead of an armload of hostages. Her right hand digs into Elias' hair, grabbing a fistful and tightening as she pulls back until his neck is twisted at a very awkward angle. "How do I bring her back?" Elias smirks again. She tightens her grip until she feels a few hair strands snap. "I am _not_ in the mood for your games."

"Always so direct," he says in the end. "But as I said, the Eye rewards its own. Let me give you some leads, Detective."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Just wanted to let you all know the support for this fic is really heartwarming and it keeps me going. Your comments make me smile so much! I'll reply to the ones in last chapter later tonight.  
> Come yell at me on tumblr! My username is the same, and we can yell about Gerry together!
> 
> **Mild content warningf for Gerry having a panic attack**

**V**

_"Please stop finding me."_

Martin makes sure no one -a very specific someone, truly- is waiting outside for him, before he walks out to hail a cab. He used to grab the bus back to his flat, but lately the thought of being trapped with all those people sends a pang of nausea right to his stomach.

The driver forgets to charge him when they get to Martin's place, but he still drops enough money to cover the fare on the backseat before climbing out. The man looks back with a start when the door opens and closes, but he doesn't see him. If he somehow did, he will forget it, Martin thinks with relief.

A stream of heavy fog flows out of the flat when he opens the door, and the inside is colder than it ought to be. Martin drops his shoes on the rack by the entrance and watches them get enveloped in the swirling mist with a curious sense of detachment. 

There's not much left to eat in the kitchen, but Martin isn't hungry lately. He realizes at times, that the reflections on the windows don't show him moving around the flat like they should. That's... nice. He doesn't want to see himself either. 

When he crawls under the covers it's still far too early to sleep, but when he's not conscious he doesn't have to listen to the sounds of the world going on outside his window, and the soft gray dreams are always quick to come.

Martin wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later after a series of rapid clicks by the side of his bed, and he's relieved. He shouldn't be, he knows. The Lonely's taking to him almost naturally, and he should stop fighting it. These are the terms he agreed to, and it guarantees Jon will be safe. 

A quick look to the window confirms he's visible again, and he turns to look, knowing very well what he's going to fin, with a tired smile already on his lips.

"Why did I ever think you'd do what you were told for once?" Martin asks the tape recorder whirring away where it's nestled snugly on his pillow. It brings Martin hope, at least the part of him that stubbornly checks for mails and opens his messaging apps and types out texts but can never bring himself to press the send button. "Still, listening to me sleeping is a bit too much, no? There's not even anything to record. Unless I snore. Do I snore?"

A long pause.

Click.

"Hm... Good to know." Martin lifts a hand up to his face, and it seems more solid than it did before he went to sleep. The tapes do help, then. Pity. "I really- I wasn't kidding when I told him I need him to leave me alone... and I think that means you too."

Click. Brrrrr. 

"Having you here is a sign he still cares about me. A-a- and I like that! But that's the problem, I shouldn't. Peter's keeping a close eye on him as it is, with this whole pissing contest with Elias. If he knows I still... the people he sends away are also a punishment for me,you know? It's always the ones I talked to last. If you ask me, the message is very clear."

The tape clicks another button sympathetically. Or maybe it just clicks, it's just a tape recorder, for God's sake. 

"Is he... well? I saw one of the deliverymen in the surveillance cameras the other day. I figured it was looking for him. Can't have been to easy to see a reminder of something so awful. God knows I still can't stand the taste of canned peaches."

The surveillance cameras are pointed towards the street -why would Elias need cameras to watch someone inside the building?- so Martin had only seen the monster go out and away from view. He'd also seen Melanie and Gerard Keay go after it, so Martin's pretty sure that's done and dealt with. 

Martin is still not sure how he feels about Gerard Keay. 

He's seen him with Jon a few times, when he's intangible enough that others don't notice him right away. He doesn't... it's not stalking or anything, Martin doesn't follow them home or look into their trash bins, he has just happened to be there when they're there too, and they don't see him because seeing them together tends to make him even more ethereal.

Gerard is _always_ touching Jon, little points of contact here and there that feel almost sacrilegious to Martin, who's always had this idea that Jon is averse to being touched. Maybe because Tim had always been the only one to take that freedom with him, before he stopped wanting to. 

The fact that Jon doesn't seem to mind only makes it more irritating.

"It's ridiculous, isn't it?" He tells the tape. The fog's starting to come back, thicker this time. He spares a look to the window, and he still hasn't disappeared, but he can see through his silhouette. "The world is at stake and I'm here being jealous over Jon."

It does make him feel better to know he never really had a chance, if Gerard -who is certainly attractive and flashy and assertive and everything Martin is not- is an indicator of Jon's tastes. But then why does Jon keep trying to get him to come back, and _why_ are the tapes still following him? Is it some sort of mistimed loyalty for the last member of his original team still standing?

"I... I guess it makes sense. I'm doing this for him." Martin runs a hand down his face to wipe away the cold condensation of the fog on his skin. "He _has_ to be safe, it's the only thing that matters and... and if Gerard keeps him safe, then we're sort of working for the same goal, right?"

Click.

"Don't be ridiculous, two people are _barely_ enough to keep Jon out of trouble," he huffs. A loud yawn catches him off guard, and Martin burrows deeper into the covers. It's never warm with the Lonely, but the softness is still comfortable. "I suggest you click off now, unless you want more snoring." 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Helen cracks her door open just an inch. Martin's snores are soft, just like everything else about him. 

She adds the tape to her collection. It's growing very nicely.

Helen closes her door with a click, and moves it to a loud, busy nightclub with bright yellow doors leading to the loos.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Do you really have to do that in here?" Jon groans when he walks past the open bathroom door and sees Gerry bent over the sink, making an absolute mess of the off-white porcelain.

"Now that you mention it, no," comes Gerry's voice from under the mass of hair, and Jon scrunches his nose at the offending smell of chemicals. "I'll just go dye my hair in the Tube station loos."

Jon rolls his eyes. "There's places that do that for you, Gerry." 

"I've done it myself all these years. Why stop now?" Gerry shrugs and goes to spread a glob of black dye over an already soaked lock.

"You're not even-" Jon's hand shoots forward, "-you're not even getting all the roots! One would think after this long you'd at least know how to do it _effectively_." It's around then that he notices his hand is clamped down on Gerry's wrist, and he freezes. Gerry touches him all the time, but maybe it's not a two way street and-

Gerry shifts a little, and then there's a blue eye looking up at Jon, almost too bright amongst all the black. 

"I mean, you could help me." Gerry's voice is still amused, and he takes a half step back to move out from under their joined hands. He then straightens up to full height, splashing a Pollock on the bathroom tiles when his hair whips back. "Or else I'm going to end up making a real mess. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

"I should ask the Eye if there's some sort of... return rec- please don't touch my towels!" Jon groans. "Just get in the tub, alright?"

"I knew you'd come around. There's dye all over your hand by the way, you should be more careful with that." Gerry smirks as he climbs into the bathtub and plops down on one end.

Fixing an undead man's dyejob at four in the morning and then cleaning the entire bathroom afterwards is not exactly how he expected to not sleep tonight, but weirder things have happened, Jon decides. 

He sits on the edge of the tub behind Gerry, and begins working the hair into a knot at the top of his head, like Georgie used to do when she did this. Gerard's hair is a bit coarse, probably because of the dye itself. He wonders idly if it would get softer with enough listening to Jon's voice. This texture is not bad anyways, he finds.

"Do you remember Andrea Nunis?" Jon asks as he begins to apply the dye to Gerard's roots. They're a dirty blond color, and it gets swallowed easily enough by the black.

"Uh... who?" Gerry's voice comes after a moment, and Jon can hear the confused frown in it. He disentangles another lock from the top; his grandmother was always a bit too rough with his hair -an old woman out of practice and without the energy needed to be anything other than ruthlessly effective- so he runs his fingers through Gerry's carefully to get rid of the knots. "I'm going to need more context, Jon."

"Eh? Oh." Jon snaps back to reality, and the question he just asked. "The- the woman. In Italy. You saw her in a café, and you told her to think of her-"

"Her mother," Gerry ends the sentence for him. "I remember. It's good to know she made it out."

"Was it... does it have to be a family member? A- a person?" The whole process is almost soothing in it's repetitive motions. Comb, apply, move aside. "Your anchor?"

"Not really." Gerry shrugs. His voice sounds the slightest bit drowsy, and Jon smiles. "Sometimes it's things... or thoughts? I knew a man that walked right out of the Dark because he and his wife had plans for brunch with his in-laws the next morning, and he didn't want to miss out on his father-in-law's quiche."

"... A man defeated the Dark through the power of breakfast food, is what you're saying?" It sounds as unconventional as anything else that has to do with the entities, but Jon is starting to get very tired of nothing making any sense. 

"Must've been one hell of a quiche, don't you think?" Gerry's neck is bent at a weird angle as Jon tries to reach the side of his head, so Jon sits back for a second and twists until his legs rest at both sides of the tub, his knees framing Gerry's shoulders. "Why do you want to know?"

Jon has a lie prepared. He's had it for about a week when he read the statement of the man in the flooded house. He's practiced it enough that he can deliver it casually, no matter how bad a liar he is, it should be believable.

"Basira wants to-" Gerry lays his cheek on Jon's knee, and Jon flinches and sputters in surprise, his mind drawing a blank. "Sh- Daisy's in the coffin. The- the Buried, I mean. Daisy- I want to bring her back." 

Gerry straightens up immediately at that -Jon has a spare second to wonder why he feels so incredibly aware of the spot on his leg where Gerry's face rested on for less than a second- and turns to look at Jon with narrowed, suspicious eyes. 

"What was that?" Gerry asks, voice low and serious enough to make Jon ignore the hastily made bun at the top of his head. "Jon?"

"Basira wants to get Daisy out of the Buried," Jon parrots off his well practiced lie. "I promised her I'd find out more about anchors so she-"

"Basira would have to be _incredibly_ stupid to try that." Gerry's eyes are still narrowed at Jon. "Climbing into the Buried willingly is as good as killing yourself. But you know that already, right?"

Jon clears his throat. "She."

"Of course. _She_ knows that." A drop of half congealed dye is tracing a long line down the wall. Jon follows it with his gaze, until Gerry pinches at his knee. "Jon."

"I'll- I'll let her know," Jon forces out, voice strained. He looks back at Gerry after a moment. His frown has softened, replaced by something that looks more like concern. He used to catch that look on Martin too sometimes. "I-"

"You can't let _Basira_ into the coffin, Jon," Gerry says with such intensity that Jon wonders for a moment if he actually caught his lie, because surely Gerry worrying this much about Basira would be less weird than Gerry worrying this much about _him_. "For real. Promise it."

"I... I'll keep her away from it." Jon's nod feels a bit robotic to him. "I'm still not done. With you- w- with your hair I mean. The- the top..."

Gerry's eyes remain on him for another long moment, before he gives his head a little shake, and turns around again. Jon moves to grab another lock of hair.

"You say Martin is trying to keep you all safe, don't you?" Gerry says, and Jon's hands freeze. "He'd be pretty bummed out if Basira died for nothing, don't you think?"

"I-"

"So let's not let _anyone_ into the coffin. For Martin."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Melanie recognizes the sound of a blade sinking into flesh the moment she walks past Jon's closed door. She stops for a moment to try and identify the feelings it brings her, and she's both happy and disappointed to find curiosity as the most prominent. She opens the door after her self exploration, a bit surprised to find it unlocked.

Jon is standing hunched over his desk and gasping in pain, one hand laid flat on top of a towel that's doing a piss poor job of absorbing a small puddle of blood, and a knife held on the other one. 

"What are you doing?" Melanie asks, leaning back on the door to close it.

"Oh!" Jon's head snaps up to meet her, and he drops the knife into an open drawer he pushes shut right after. "I-"

"Yeah, that makes everything much less suspicious." She rolls her eyes. "Where did all that blood come from?"

"Uh- me, actually," Jon says apologetically. The towel makes a squelching sound when he folds if over. "I'm- would you believe me if I told you I'm trying to save Daisy?"

"Has your first idea for 'help" always been bullshit surgery, or is this a new development?" Melanie crosses her arms over her chest, and begins tapping a finger against her arm. Even just being in a room with Jon is irritating. Not enraging anymore, but he's just... eugh.

"... I'm- Basira said you didn't want to see me-" 

"I didn't," she shakes her head, arms still crossed. The tapping finger is now a fingernail lightly dragging -not quite scratching- against her skin.

"-But I'm- I'm very sorry Melanie," Jon says, and Melanie rolls her eyes.

"Fuck off," she mutters, and even the way Jon flinches back at her voice makes her angrier. "You 'saved' me, isn't that what you wanted? Go, team Archives."

"I... I wanted to ask you." Jon's voice is low. "To-"

"Yeah, no. The only reason Gerry was able to get me off of you was because I was fighting the anesthetic, the sleeping pills, and the bullet was already off." Melanie gives a humorless laugh. "Basira was right, the only way to do it was to betray me and effectively destroy the last space I still felt somewhat safe in. So thank you."

"Basira said you were better..."

"Basira doesn't _care_ if I feel better, Jon." Melanie sinks her nail into the meat of her arm, and the momentary flash of pain serves to keep her grounded. "She only cares that I'm a variable she can control. My condition was good when it kept us safe, but I was becoming too volatile, and now I'm de-clawed so I'm _better_ , according to her."

Jon looks at her with a pained expression she somehow doubts has anything to do with whatever he was doing to his hand, and sighs.

"I know you won't believe me, but I care that you feel better. Maybe it's enough to start letting go of the an-"

"Oh, shut up. _Please_ shut up, you don't even know!" Melanie snarls, her fingernails now well and truly sunken into her arm. She takes a moment to pull them out and take a deep breath. "My _whole_ life, Jon. My whole life I've been angry because people look at me and think they know better, think I'm not good enough, not _strong_ enough. This anger you want me to let go of is the reason I've gotten this far, it's what has pushed me to do anything in the first place, it's-"

"M- Melanie," Jon tries, but she whips a hand up to point at him and he shuts up immediately, flinching.

"No, _listen_ to me! Do you have any idea what it's like? Of course you don't! You were picked to run this place even though they could _hardly_ have found anyone less qualified, probably because Elias knew anyone else would see through his bullshit right away, what do you know about being passed over because of who you are?" She snarls. The rage, it feels... not like before. Or maybe that's how it felt before India, every word letting something out instead of drawing more back in for her to stew over. Jon is listening to her every thought, and she can see the hurt on his face but at least _someone_ is listening. "And then this- this ghost shoots me. And suddenly something inside me is telling me that this is right! That this is my power, that I _can_. The bullet didn't stay because of some spooky bullshit, Jon. The only reason it was able to stay in the first place is because I _wanted_ it."

The office is silent for a moment, the only sound echoing across being Melanie's hard breathing. Jon drops on his chair suddenly, like his legs feel weak. He gives her a slow nod.

"...Shit. I- Of course. I didn't- the entities choose their own," he says, which Melanie guesses is pretty on line with what Gerry told her. The Slaughter wanted her because she had always craved the power anger gave her, so maybe the Eye chose Jon because the moron ways craved to at least have an inkling of what's going on. "But I never thought about that. I'm- I'm very sorry Melanie."

"Yes."

"Melanie-"

"So-" Melanie interrupts him, because she's not about to have a 'you and I are one' moment with Jon of all people. "Why are you trying to chop off your fingers?"

"Oh- that, I'm-" Jon looks at his right hand like it just grew out of his forearm. "I'm going into the coffin."

Melanie arches an eyebrow. "The chained up coffin with 'do not open' scratched on the top?"

"Yes I _know_ how it sounds like, thank you." Job huffs and rolls his eyes, and Melanie has a flashback to the first time they met, when he was so skeptical about her show and she tried to rile him up about his Institute's reputation. It feels like an eternity ago. "But Daisy's in there, and I'm the only one that probably won't die if I go in after her. I just need an anchor to come back."

"And you thought a finger would be enough."

"Well... it's a part of me. It doesn't get much closer than that," Jon runs a hand through his hair. His nervousness makes him appear a little more human, at least. "But I keep healing. Hurts plenty, but they won't come off."

"Right... listen, does your boyfriend know about this?" 

Jon, who'd been scowling at his hand for not mutilating adequately, snaps back up to look at her like a deer in the headlights. 

"My- w- who?" He stammers out, and Melanie wants to sock him on the nose. Less in a 'bash his head in' and more like when she punches Gerry on the ribs because he keeps trying to look at her phone when she's texting Georgie.

She rolls her eyes. "There's hair dye all over your hand." Jon seems to catch on at last, because he blushes enough for it to be noticeable against his dark skin. Back when they were dating Georgie used to say he was cute when he was flustered, but to Melanie he just looks constipated. "Kudos for fixing that by the way. But back to my point, does he know? Because this sounds like the kind of brilliant plan you hatch at three in the morning before going at your hair with the kitchen scissors."

"That's... oddly specific." Jon swallows. "I- Gerry doesn't know, no. Or- he knows I was looking into anchors..."

"But?"

"... But I promised him I wouldn't go in." He admits after a moment's hesitation. "I have to though. If Daisy's alive- I can't leave her there."

Again, Melanie doesn't care about Jon at all. But people around her do for some reason, even Georgie, despite how angry she is at him right now. And leaving Daisy in the Buried... she can see where he's coming from.

"But you can't go in anyways, can't you?" She asks, stalling for time as she tries to come to a decision. Jon seems awfully sure about the anchors, and he _has_ to know if it'll work, the Eye wouldn't let him go in if it wasn't solid. "Without cutting the finger off, you don't have anything."

Jon sighs. "I guess. Hah, this would be a lot easier if we had the bone turner. Just... reach in and get me a rib."

Oh.

That's exactly the moment Melanie remembers she never told anyone what she did to Jared Hopworth, when stabbing heart after heart wasn't enough to keep him down. 

"...Melanie?" Jon asks, suspicion coloring every syllable.

"Follow me. And don't talk," she warns before marching off towards the tunnels. 

Jon does keep quiet as they make their way to the bright yellow door, terribly out of place in the tunnel's faded gray walls.

"I didn't know it was living here," he says then, and Helen's echoing laugh seeps from below the door. Melanie rolls her eyes.

"She's helped us a lot," is all she says before she opens the door. She doesn't know the rules too well, because Helen can open it herself just fine at times. Maybe it's only when there's no one else to open it?

"Calling me an it doesn't do you any favors, Archivist. What are you, then?" When Helen walks out of the door her knees are backwards and her lipstick keeps changing colors. "Especially as of late?"

Jon stiffens, before he jerks his head towards Melanie. "Do you trust it? For real?"

Melanie crosses her arms, unimpressed. "Don't call her that."

"Fine," Jon rolls his eyes. "Do you trust her? She's never helped me too much."

"Helen did," Helen says, smiling. "She locked the door, did you know?"

And that seems to take Jon off guard.

"Did- did she know? What would happen to her?"

Helen's smile zigzags across her face. "Helen was sharp."

Jon doesn't seem to know what to say to that, so Melanie steps forward again. 

"I do trust her. And if you want the bone turner, you'll have to trust her too," she says seriously. If Jon can't take Melanie's judgement at face value then-

"Ok," Jon mutters almost to himself. Melanie remembers the testament tape, how she and Martin and Basira listened to it together, when it looked like they might be the only ones left. Jon's adamant voice as he declares 'I choose to trust' has a haunting quality in her memory. "Right. Then- then I'll- is he in there?"

Helen nods. She looks very pleased, and Melanie smiles a little. Helen may not be human, but she's still her friend. 

"Mmm... he's not something I can really digest. Too _meaty_ , you know?" Helen gestures towards her open door. "I'll make sure you run into him."

Jon takes a deep breath to steel himself. "Ok. I'll- I'll offer to let him out. For the rib. If he tries something-"

"I suggest running," Helen coos, and Melanie gets the feeling that she finds this very amusing. "Try to find a door."

"...Yes thank you," Jon gives her the stink eye before pulling a tape recorder from his pocket. At this point Melanie's starting to believe they give him the same sense of safety the knives gave her when she was still affected by the bullet. He turns to her. "Melanie..."

"I'm not going in with you. Good luck," she says, but he shakes his head. 

"No, I just… it was never the bullet," Jon says and Melanie wants to groan because _of course_ he has to go and make it awkward. "I'm- I'm very sorry you felt that way."

"... Jon _please_ go in before I push you." 

The door closes, and Melanie sits down against the wall. Helen quite literally folds herself by her side, and they wait. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------

"Oh, he's got his bone," says Helen an hour or so later when Melanie's just started dozing off. "He's not looking too good, though".

"Ugh. Of course he had to go and get himself all fucked up. What am I going to tell Gerry?" Melanie huffs, already trying to come up with a decent lie.

Helen tilts her head to the side. Her chin points at the ceiling. "We're keeping the secret?"

Melanie shrugs once, sharply. Jon doesn't deserve her loyalty, much less after everything that's happened lately. But she believes him when he says he's doing it for Daisy, and Melanie's personal grudges probably shouldn't get in the way of people doing what's right. Even if they're very reasonable personal grudges.

"Just this once," she tells Helen after a moment. "He'll owe me."

The door opens, and Jon groans and spills out like a boneless -Melanie can't hold back a snort- mess on the tunnels' floor, holding a startlingly white rib on his hand. 

"He'll owe me big time."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Oh shit, you're back early," Melanie looks up from her phone like a startled deer when he walks into the Archives. 

Gerry arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I brought ice cream, but if you're going to be like this I'll just eat it all myself," he walks past her towards Jon's office.

"He's not there. He's- taking care of some business." Melanie's voice is painfully casual, and Gerry pinches the bridge of his nose with the hand not holding his half eaten treat. Who taught these people to lie and why did they do such a piss poor job of it?

"Melanie, where's Jon?" 

"Doing Archivist things."

"First off, you don't know what that is. Second off, there's not nearly enough screams for that," Gerry rolls his eyes. "Where is he?"

"He-"

"The truth this time please." Gerry throws the plastic bag on top of a desk, and turns to her only to find her with the same dazed expression. "Why are you even lying? It's not like-" his stomach drops suddenly, and Gerry feels his mouth go dry. "Ah fuck. He did it." 

He doesn't even want to think about what this means for _him_ , because he's tied to Jon somehow, and now Jon is gone. Trapped. Unable to move, unable to breathe, dirt pressing all around him but never choking him enough to die. All to save another person because that's the only way he thinks he can justify his existence.

"He did what? Gerry, you're not making-" Melanie tries to talk over him, but he needs to get the words out because they taste rotten in his mouth.

"He went into the damned coffin didn't he? He promised he wouldn't, did-" 

"He didn't-" Melanie slaps a hand on the desk to get his attention, and Gerry whips around to look at her. "Jon's fine. He just wasn't feeling well, you're making a mess." Gerry looks down. The half eaten lolly's melting on his hand, and a small red puddle has formed on the desk. "Wow, déja vu," mutters Melanie to herself.

"What's happened to him then?" Gerry frowns. It's not as if a migraine would be able to drop an avatar.

"I don't really like being Seen," comes a new voice, and Gerry whips around again, this time to see the yellow door that's now the entrance to a place that is not Jon's office. "And I didn't make it easy for him."

"So you two had a row?" That would make more sense, Gerry thinks. The Spiral is hard on the Eye. "About what?"

"Keep asking. Ended very well for him," Helen says smugly. Gerry notices however, that the Distortion hasn't even cracked the door open, much less come out, so Jon must've at least gotten a few good metaphorical punches in, whatever it was that they were fighting about. He turns to Melanie. 

"What happened?"

Melanie rolls her eyes. "He called her an it. Everything escalated from there," she shrugs, and Gerry guesses from the way she averts her eyes that there's something she's not telling him, but that's ok. Whatever relationship she has with the Distortion is her own business. "He's on Basira's cot, by the tunnels."

Gerry blinks. "By the what?"

"The tunnels?" Melanie arches an eyebrow, like Gerry's playing dumb on purpose. "The ones under the Institute?"

"...Of course." Gerry forces through a suddenly too tight throat. "I'll- I'll go check on him."

"You forgot your loll- ugh," is all Gerry hears as he escapes the room, but he couldn't care less about the melting treat on the desk.

He walks aimlessly, trying to drown the cacophony of his thoughts with the loud sound of his steps, and he's barely aware -and vaguely thankful- that whatever tether his body was rebuilt around is pulling him toward Jon.

He shouldn't be this surprised, honestly. Gertrude... Gertrude lied about worse things. Did worse things. The entire conversation they had that evening is playing in his mind again, and Gerry feels his knees weaken as his pulse begins to race.

 _"Do you think they can reach us after death?"_

Just when did he forget Gertrude was not his mother? How did he forget she could be just as cruel? Gerry's hands are shaking a little.

_"Personally, I suspect death puts us beyond their power..."_

Did she remember that moment as she mutilated his body in that American morgue? Did she even stop to _think_ before she did it? His head feels like it's filled with crawling ants as he imagines, not for the first time, Gertrude peeling his skin off to make his page. 

He lays a hand flat against the wall when the world starts wobbling a little. During the first few months in the book, Gerry had entertained the thought that Gertrude bound him out of some twisted version of love. She needed him around, they were a team, she'd burn his page when the job was done, and they'd be free together.

The fantasy only really lasted up until the hunters summoned him for the first time, and let him know they bought the book from a less than trustworthy cop that turned a blind eye to the two of them rifling through evidence for anything supernatural. Why does he feel so light-headed? He's breathing, he's breathing as fast as he can but there's no air in his lungs and they're starting to burn and-

"Gerry?" The voice is like a soothing balm, snuffing out all of Gerry's thoughts at once and leaving him only with blessed silence and the taste of the gentle concern poured into his name. He looks up -he doesn't remember when he slid down the wall- to find Jon crouching before him. "What happened?" He asks, and the words once again taste sweet with worry.

Gerry wonders if this isn't the Eye's cruelest joke yet, handing Gerry over to someone who actually cares, after the fate that befell him at the hands of his predecessor. After he's learned not to trust.

"Why's your hand all red? Your mouth- is it- oh it's sticky-" Jon's touch is clumsy when it lands first on Gerry's cherry-stained hand, then on his face. Yet another confirmation that he's not accustomed to human closeness. "You don't look good."

"You've looked better yourself." Gerry croaks, but it lacks the light teasing tone he usually gives Jon. It's... it probably wouldn't come across too well right now. "Why do you have a Flesh mark?" 

Jon lips twist into a tired version of his usual, lopsided smile, as his hand curls into a fist and lays softly on Gerry's shoulder. Now that the panic attack is subsiding, the exhaustion is kicking in. "Helen has eaten some nasty things."

"You look like someone's fear bingo card," Gerry huffs. One would think Elias would take better care of his Archivist, even Gertrude never had these many close encounters and she practically looked for them.

"What's the prize?" Jon asks, his smile still tired but a bit more alive with amusement. 

_'You are'_ , Gerry thinks, and at the same time he also Knows. Both certainties are puzzling enough, but he's not in the headspace to think harder about any of them. Besides, it's a bit heavy to just drop that out there. "Let's not find out. I'd rather keep you out of trouble."

"I- I picked up a statement. To read at home," Jon mumbles. Gerry chuckles a little. He doesn't remember if he ever really had something he could call home, but the little flat with the lavender-smelling couch and Jon on the coffee table feel welcoming enough. "But I think we could use it now. Both of us."

Gerry lays a heavy hand on Jon's shoulder and pulls him down, moving slowly enough that Jon can turn around before he lands, leaning half on the wall, half against Gerry's side.

"Sounds like a plan." Gerry leans his head back against the wall to look up at the old, flickering lightbulbs. He feels Jon's troubled eyes on him. An Archivist's gaze is not to be ignored, but Gerry can't bring himself to look back. It's already bad enough that he likes Jon. That he cares for him, trusts him. 

Maybe being tied to Jon is not the price to pay for living again. Maybe the price is learning just all the ways Gertrude played him. Learning again and again that perhaps he did trust her after all, and that it was all for nothing. Living with the constant fear that the second time around will be just the same, and there's something in Gerry that causes people to leave.

Jon's hand lands on Gerry's knee suddenly, gracelessly. Reassuringly. 

"Statement of Adam Rodak," Jon reads. His word taste of peace, and his hand squeezes around Gerry's knee. A small comfort, from someone so unused to getting them. Gerry lets his eyes fall shut and his head fall sideways to rest against Jon's. "Regarding a holiday on the countryside..."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the peeps at the LonelyEyes discord server that let me use their Vastsonas!  
> Sylphie belongs to SarcasticSylphie aka [TideHopper](https://tidehopper.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr  
> Matt belongs to [Pancakeofsin](https://www.instagram.com/pancakeofsin/?hl=en)
> 
> And as always, thank you to my lovely Beta [Mx_Carter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Carter/pseuds/Mx_Carter)

**VI**

Basira's capability to work through bullshit is, it turns out, incredibly high.

It's basically a requirement for all sectioned officers, but Basira's been steadily pushing her threshold back since she started noticing her partner and friend with benefits could track down a suspect better than the K9 units. As it stands now, she looks at Sylphie Fairchild, and ignores the way her ears feel blocked, like every sound is dimmed and muffled before it reaches her. She knows they're standing in a shop on a busy street, the avatar's acoustic tricks are not going to fool her.

"A diving school?" Basira asks. The shop is all painted a single hue of deep blue, from the door and the floor to the counter, and if Basira loses her focus for a moment it becomes unclear if the walls are even there at all.

"Best one in Malta," Sylphie smiles. It's difficult to believe there's something inhuman about her, when she's not spewing bugs or sprouting limbs. "We specialize in nighttime excursions. Only you and the sea and the stars above yo-"

"Sounds charming," Basira interrupts. The woman leans across the counter slow and flowingly, like she's moving through water. The folds on her flannel continue moving long after she's stopped, as if pushed around by currents Basira can't see. "I thought drowning was a Buried thing."

It's why she'd come here in the first place. Surely a Vast avatar that deals in the Buried's domain will know something about the coffin, or how to crack it open. 

"Hmmmmm, it depends on what you get from it." Sylphie, voice turns amused. "Should you be asking questions? I thought that's why you had an Archivist."

Basira sighs. That does explain why this feels so _wrong_. When Elias gave her the name, it had been easy to find Fairchild, her path illuminating in her mind like a neon trail. But that's it. She's meant to find information, not add it to the Archive, she guesses.

Whatever. This is not about Basira and what she may or may not be turning into. This is about Daisy, and that makes it worth it. 

"He's busy. I want to-"

"Ah, pity. I wanted to meet him! Michael always gets all the fun- or he used to." Sylphie chuckles darkly, and it sends Basira's nerves on edge. A good reminder that this is not just a young woman playing dumb, but a predator. She wonders how many people have jumped into the sea in the middle of the night and then never found the boat again. "You Eye folks really like sticking your noses in everybody's businesses don't you?"

Basira's nape prickles. The counter is gone, and she's standing in the middle of a deep blue expanse, much colder than it ought to in the middle of the Maltese summer.

"I'm not scared," says Basira, and she means it. She rationalized her way out of the Unknowing, it takes a lot more than a Fairchild with bad taste in decoration to mess with her mind. "Do you know anything about the coffin?"

Sylphie rolls her eyes. "Tsk. You're no fun at all." She snaps her fingers, and the reassuring presence of walls and floor and ceiling start to fade in again. "It's a pocket dimension, I don't deal with those. Too constricting. Couldn't help you if I wanted to, sorry!"

"Do you know anyone that could?" Basira asks, and Sylphie gives another laugh, delighted this time. 

"Sure, don't know if he _would_ though. Go look for Matthew." 

The words light up like a beacon in Basira's mind and all of a sudden she has a purpose again. _This_ is what she's supposed to do, and the first steps of the way towards finding the next target are already forming in her head. 

"Not even a thank you?" Sylphie's amused smile is audible in her voice as Basira walks towards the door. "Come back when you get whoever it is out of the coffin! We do couples outings!"

Basira slams the door so hard that the glass panes of the windows vibrate furiously, even after she walks away. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

The depression on his ribcage is fairly noticeable, when the steam on the mirror clears. Jon is not too used to looking at his own body, especially in the past years, when every time he looks there's a new scar to hate.

He presses his hand to the skin, and the beat of his pulse is much easier to find without the protective barrier of the ribs, and much more comforting than it should. It _has_ to mean something, that he still has a beating heart.

"You've been staying the night a lot more lately," Jon observes when he walks into the kitchen to find Gerry brewing a pot of coffee. Gerry looks at him for a second and then immediately back at the pot. Jon goes to push his wet hair away from his face, suddenly self conscious.

"Does it bother you?" 

"Wh- no, not at all," Jon shakes his head. _Great, just great. Just go ahead and screw it up with the only person who for whatever reason seems to like your presence anymore._ "I was just wondering."

"Yeah I just thought with the Dark people coming closer-" Gerry's voice fades gradually, until he's looking at the coffeepot in a sort of contemplative silence. He turns his head to look at Jon again after a moment. "I just like being here."

Jon feels his mouth dry up, and the space where his missing ribs should go aches as if to remind him he's betraying Gerry's trust even as they speak. He'll- he'll probably stop liking it -liking Jon- when he finds out he's been lying to him.

"That's- that's good. I like having you here," Jon mutters. At least he isn't lying about that. Having Gerry around makes him feel a bit more human, and the man is awfully patient in the face of Jon's awkwardness and bad habits. "I- do you need me to read something tonight?"

Gerry rolls his eyes as he pours coffee in two mugs, and Jon feels his stomach do a flip. The gesture doesn't look annoyed at all. It's the kind of eye roll Georgie used to give him before, all fond exasperation he doesn't deserve.

"I don't come here _just_ to get my fix, Jon," Gerry smirks, passing him a mug. "Let's just watch a movie, I could use the distraction. I'll even let you sit on the sofa, come on."

He walks out into the sitting room, and Jon watches him go. The warm drink in his hands brings to mind a comparison he _doesn't_ want to make, because it didn't end well for Martin.

Jon follows, and finds that Gerry has indeed left him a spot on the sofa, just wide enough to sit with his legs under him, which Jon miraculously manages without spilling hot coffee on himself. "How considerate."

Gerry winks. "Your own fault. Don't go adopting stray undeads if you don't have enough sofa space."

Despite himself and his earlier thoughts, Jon smiles. He often finds himself relaxing around Gerry.

"Terribly sorry, the Eye didn't mention anything about your furniture hoarding habits when it dropped you off." Jon sips at his coffee as Gerry snorts. 

"I do wonder sometimes, you know?" Gerry asks after a while. The remote sits untouched on the coffee table before them. "Why exactly did the Eye choose me. I mean, we know it was putting on a show for you, so why bring back the sad book ghost instead of your actual friends?"

"I don't think it wanted to lose another Archivist so soon, and you were the only option that wouldn't try to kill me as soon as you woke up," Jon shrugs. It's a tough truth, but a truth nonetheless.

"Hm. Well yes, but it still, " Gerry's started spreading over more and more of the sofa as he speaks, and Jon gets the feeling he's going to end on the coffee table again after all. "It would've made you happy to have them again, and I think that was the point in-"

"It chose just fine then." Jon looks stubbornly at the dark coffee in his mug. He's aware enough that he's just on the verge of making things awkward- Gerry's already gone suspiciously quiet by his end of the sofa, but he needs to say it. "I'm just- I'm sorry it wouldn't let you rest. Having you around is- but you earned it. You deserved a chance to be free of all this."

Gerry clears his throat. "That means a lot, Jon." His voice is a little strained, and Jon sighs. Another interaction turned uncomfortable, great. "So- how about a comedy? I'd suggest a thriller, but we'll both probably Know the twist before it happens so what's the case?"

Jon's head whips up at the change in tone. Gerry's stopped slipping down the couch, his socked foot just shy of touching Jon's knee, and he's reaching for the remote. Usually these conversations end with the other person storming away from him, not just- moving past to the next thing.

Maybe Jon is right, and the Watcher brought him Gerry because he's the only one that could possibly sit down and watch a movie with a monster. 

The gap in his ribcage aches again, and Jon has to remind himself that Daisy's life is more important than his regret.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

She hadn't expected to find a Vast avatar in the middle of New York's downtown, where every space is crowded to its maximum capacity. Perhaps this is a more metaphorical empty space? The unbreachable distance people build around themselves, that sort of thing.

"Matt," says the man at the top of the line, handing the barista a crisp hundred dollar note. "Keep the change."

Basira rolls her eyes before approaching him. The duality of these monsters is without a doubt their most vexing aspect, tipping a barista 95% on a mocha before shoving another innocent off a bridge or however this one does his business.

"Matthew Fairchild?" she asks once she's within a few steps' range. "I have some questions."

The man -teen, really, Basira doubts he's a day over twenty, if he even reaches the number- gives her a sideways look, before his eyebrows arch in recognition. 

"Oh you're the Eye fella aren't you?" He smiles. Basira blinks. Suspects aren't usually this thrilled to see her. "Sylphie told me you'd be coming, that was quick! Let me just get my coffee and we can move somewhere more comfortable."

"Thats- no. I just want to know-"

"Matt?" Another barista calls from the end of the bar, and Basira has no doubt the extra ninety something dollars helped push Fairchild's order to the top of the queue. Matthew grins and dashes away to pick up the steaming cup, leaving Basira's ears whistling a little.

"There, thanks for waiting," the young man returns to Basira's side with a whipped cream monstrosity, and she can feel her lower lid begin to twitch. "So where's your Archivist? I heard he killed Mike-"

"He didn't," Basira interrupts him immediately. "That was a hunter. The Archivist was just lucky she stepped in at the right moment." It should feel wrong, using that term to describe Daisy, or praise her kills when she's so much _more_ than what the Hunt made of her, but Basira won't let her achievements go uncredited. 

"Hm. Yeah makes more sense I guess," Matthew shrugs. "Anyways, what do you want?"

"The other- she said you knew about pocket dimensions," Basira says carefully. This one seems a bit more cooperative than the last, but she knows better than to trust avatars.

Matthew laughs. "Well, I got mine. Is that what you mean?"

Basira looks around. The Starbucks is gone, and they're standing at the edge of a sickly yellow grass field ending on a cliff, a mirror copy of it a thousand miles below them. That one too ends in a cliff, and Basira can just about see the same field and the same cliff repeating over and over again as far as her eyes can perceive.

She rips her gaze away from the unending space and focuses on Matthew, who's watching her with an amused smile edged in milk foam and chocolate syrup.

"Yes, this is what I mean." Basira hopes her words and tone can convey just how not impressed she is, but the avatar seems far from offended. "How would one break out of it?"

"Now, it wouldn't be too smart of me to tell people that, don't you think?" 

Down by the third cliff -or the fourth? Sixth?- Basira catches the movement of a lonely figure as they fall to their knees and begin tearing at their hair, calling out to the empty expanse of white sky above them.

"I don't care about them," Basira says. She should feel guilty, and in some way she does. But they aren't Daisy, and she can't save them. "I'm talking about the coffin."

"Ew, don't talk about that thing!" Matthew cringes, and the sounds of the busy coffeeshop around them start again like someone just pressed play on a recording. 

"I need something that will work on the Buried," Basira says. Matthew rolls his eyes.

"Don't know, don't care. You really should've brought someone who could get answers, if you really wanted them," he takes another sip of his coffee, "I'm gonna go no-"

Basira's hand shoots forward to clamp down on his wrist. "I will find you again," she warns, "I am not the Archivist, but I am _good_ at finding people. And I will keep finding you and yours again and again, until you. Tell. Me."

Matthew arches an eyebrow at Basira's white-knuckled grip on his forearm, and Basira feels wind whipping up around her again, smells the sickly grass and hears the faint, distant screams. She doesn't look away from him. If this is a pissing contest, she will _win_ it. 

It feels like an eternity goes by before Matthew sighs, and Basira's once more assaulted by the scent of overpriced coffee and the sounds of people purchasing it. 

"Like a dog with a bone. Are you sure you're not with the Hunt?" he asks. Basira doesn't move an inch, and Matthew rolls his eyes. "Fine. The ones your sort gets statements from are the ones we let out, usually. They have anchors. Don't know if it'll work in the coffin. My thing is a gateway into the Falling Titan, the coffin _is_ the Buried. Can I go now?"

Basira narrows her eyes. "If you lied, I will find you, and I will bring him with me. You won't like how he asks questions."

"Bring him, I have nothing to hide." The man snatches his wrist free, and as he walks towards the crystal doors they slide open with a burst of air and he's gone, Basira suspects back to his own little reality. 

There's... A lot to think about.

She takes a seat on an armchair by a corner. An anchor. This should make things easier, but it really doesn't. Basira lets out a low, slightly hysterical cackle. Now she just needs to find an anchor to go save her anchor from the damned box.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

He needs to stop coming here, Martin thinks.

The scent of brewing tea, the warmth from the mugs and the steam from the kettle -so different from the white fog that's started following him, even outside his flat- serve only to bring him back. To the time when the break room meant life and company; or even worse, to the time when the break room was already either empty or full of tired, wary looks, but it meant a preamble to a small lopsided smile and a single muted thanks after handing out a warm mug, and that brought Martin all the strength he needed. 

The hope's still there, however faint, but Martin doesn't want it anymore. Doesn't want to want it, if it makes sense. Peter isn't lying when he insists life alone is much easier, but something in Martin keeps clinging stubbornly to the feeling of belonging. There's a click behind him, and Martin sighs and turns to give the tape recorder another reminder that he _needs_ to be left alone.

Jon's startled eyes meet his from where he's frozen by the door, and Martin wants to _scream_.

"I- sorry," Jon apologizes immediately, "I thought Melanie-"

"She's out. She left with Gerard this morning." Martin saw them leave through the cameras, but he also _felt_ them leave. He can often tell how many people are still in the Institute lately.

"Uh- yes I- they've been going out, I forgot," Jon mumbles and Martin feels that ugly, useless, misguided hope rear its head up again. "They've been hunting. A Leitner, I think Gerry said." Oh, there it goes. Dead again.

"Back on his old business, then." 

"Yes, he's- I don't think he knows how to give up on helping people," Jon says. There's an undeniable warmth in Jon's dark eyes when he says that, and Martin has the thought that maybe he came here today because the Lonely wanted him here for this very encounter. "You'd know about that, I guess."

Wait, what?

Jon's eyes are still soft, fixed on some point behind Martin, and he realizes with a start that he still hasn't poured the extra mug of tea down the drain.

"I-" Martin starts, but he has no idea how to follow it. _'I love you, please forget about me'_ is maybe too on the nose.

"You need to go, that's-" Jon's resolve, whatever it was, seems to deflate. Martin winces. "I understand, I need to go out anyways, I- sorry. "

He turns to leave, and Martin is left alone with the bitter thought that the only thing worse than Jon not respecting his wishes is apparently Jon doing just that.

He needs to stop coming here.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

"You look distracted," Melanie says when they stop for lunch at midday. She's got some fish and chips, and Gerry is -as usual- picking unenthusiastically at the smallest item in the menu. She often wonders if he doesn't really need to eat and does it only to appease her- in which case his solution does a lot more to feed her suspicions than to ease them. "What is it?"

"Hm? I mean, we're hunting a book that makes you grow organs until they start coming out of your body cavities, isn't that enough?" He flicks a chip around the plate, glaring down at it like it personally wrote the offending book.

"Yeah, and we know exactly where it is. We just need to wait until tomorrow when the shop's open. That's not what's worrying you." Melanie's not sure where the certainty comes from. She's either been spending too much time with Gerry, or the Eye's mark is starting to affect her more now that the bullet is gone and she spends most of her day out looking for leads on avatars and Leitners. "Gerry?" she asks again, because he clearly stopped listening to her about a word in.

"I don't know. I'm just on edge, for some reason." And his eyes drift away in the direction of the Institute again. Melanie groans, because she thought she was done listening to relationship trouble involving that freak forever, but her life is a joke and she's two Jon-related comments away from inviting the Slaughter back in. "What?"

"Did you two get in a fight? Is that it? You're trying to save who knows how many people from vomiting their organs until they're empty meatsacks, and you're worried about _Jon_?" she snarls, stabbing at the piece of fish on her plate so hard she hears the fork clink against the plate underneath. Therapy, Georgie, Gerry and bullet removal have done a little to fix her animosity towards Jon, but she seriously doubts she'll ever like him. She never did in the first place, so she figures it's ok.

"I- no? We're alright," Gerry frowns at her like _she's_ the crazy one. "...but maybe? It _does_ feel like there's something back at the Institute. But I don't know what. Maybe the Eye wants me there for some reason."

"Got it. Then we should keep you away, right?" Melanie looks at Gerry. Gerry looks back. The silence stretches. Melanie narrows her eyes. "Right?" 

"Melanie..." Gerry's look turns pained, and Melanie groans again. 

"I thought we _weren't_ doing what the entities wanted!"

"We're not, it's just- last time it felt sort of like this, you know?" Gerry shrugs. He looks apologetic, biting at his stupid lip piercing with a thoughtful frown. "When the deliveryman went in. They might be in trouble."

Melanie rolls her eyes. Since Basira's away on whatever lead she's chasing there's only three people at the Institute that would theoretically be in danger, two of them are technically unkillable, and she really only cares about the one that could escape most easily.

"Helen will let him into her door if it's anything too bad," she tries. It's probably true, but Gerry's frown doesn't fade.

"I'm not too sure about that," Gerry says, and Melanie remembers in that moment that they lied to him to cover the ribs thing and he thinks Helen and Jon got into some sort of monster brawl. Funny how lies come back to bite you in the ass. "We can't do anything else about the book today. Let's go back early."

Melanie pinches the bridge of her nose. Gerry probably won't leave her alone and go back by himself. Outside the Institute the only safety they have is their numbers, and he wouldn't just let her get taken, she's sure. She's also very sure he'll be insufferable until they go back. She was enjoying the break, goddammit.

"I hate you." She lifts a hand to call the server over, and pulls her phone out to send a text.

 _"Your ex continues to ruin literally everything in my life"_ she texts Georgie while they wait for the food to be packed up. Gerry's not even trying to peek at her phone, so he must be genuinely worried. Georgie sends back some kissy emojis, and Melanie feels a little less murder-prone. _"Some insight on this? You hid him in your house during a murder investigation. Is it mind control?"_

 _"I'm very weak to cute short people who make bad decisions. Lucky you."_ Georgie responds. Melanie smiles. She'll take the compliment and the implication, even if it's lumping her in with Jon.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

"I thought you were going to wait for Basira," Helen opens her door on the ceiling this time. It's fun to inconvenience the Archivist, she thinks, as he twists his neck to look up at her. The chains are undone, and the coffin hums a delighted purr, having been promised a willing meal. 

"I can't anymore," Jon mutters. There's no animosity in his tone when he looks at Helen, which is both new _and_ pleasing. "We don't know what Daisy's going through in there. Waiting however long until Basira comes back when I've been ready for days... it feels unnecessarily cruel."

"Hmmm... had some snacks for the way, didn't you?" Helen asks. The Archivist's eyes are not usually green, but they're glowing like neon since he walked back into the Institute. 

"Don't- don't mention it, please." Jon closes his eyes, but the lovely green glow is visible even through his eyelids. "I'm- if I don't-" he starts again, before cutting himself short with a huff.

Helen arches an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"I... I know you're not her. Helen, I mean," the Archivist starts again. "But- they're all human." He says it as though he expects her to understand, and Helen nods. They're all so _easy_ to break, thin boned and fragile minded, so fascinating to watch in this world of nightmares they've stumbled into. Helen likes them an awful lot.

"And you trust me to keep them safe?" Helen asks. Truth is, the Archivist is not wrong. She's not Helen Richardson in the way a hand is not a body. She's not even really an avatar either, because the Distortion spawned from the Spiral itself, but sometimes she wonders if there is too much human in her now, polluting the purity of her concept. The Distortion likes humans, but not in the way that Helen does, and the clash is... disconcerting.

Jon gives a soft, humorless laugh. "I don't know that I trust _me_ to keep them safe. But I'm all there is... and if I'm gone, then-"

"I'm not exactly a fighter, Jon."

"You found a way to help Melanie- a way to help me." Jon looks up at her, and Helen averts her gaze. His eyes are too much, this up close. A recently fed Archivist is not something to be taken lightly.

"I thought you said I wasn't Helen," she says. Jon bends down to lay his rib on the ground next to the coffin. 

He shrugs. "I still feel like Jon, sometimes." He straightens up, and takes a deep breath, before stepping into the coffin. "Goodbye, Helen."

"Good luck, Jon." Helen waves him goodbye, the tips of her fingers grazing strands of his hair before he descends too far for her to reach. 

The coffin closes.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Gerry likes to think he's both fairly smart and intuitive. The Beholding wouldn't have marked him otherwise, tattoos or not. The uncontrollable curiosity was always a part of him, and his mother loved it. As Gerry grew older he realized it was because she thought his Beholding mark would make it easier for her to get information for her ritual; very on brand for Mary Keay, to encourage her six years old into becoming bait for an entity of eldritch horror.

He's no Pupil, no Archivist and no Detective, but Gerry knows things others don't. And as they get closer to the Institute, what he knows is that something is deeply, impossibly wrong.

The Eye is calling him back at full force, the tether born where his heart used to be pulled taut like a harp string, and Gerry realizes with a start that this has something to do with Jon. But it makes no sense, Jon was just _fine_ this morning, and judging on what he did to the Stranger's errand boy a few weeks ago, he's powerful enough to handle whatever comes his way. Jon will be fine, he has to be fi-

"Slow down!" Melanie snaps, and Gerry realizes she's almost running to keep up with his longer, hurried strides.

"Sorry. It just- it's bad," Gerry grunts out as they bend around the corner, and the Institute comes into view. His worry seems to have caught on with Melanie, and she keeps up with him without another complaint. "I don't know what it is, just-"

"I still feel like Jon, sometimes." Jon's voice is as clear as if he was talking by Gerry's ear, even though he's nowhere in sight. This is definitely the furthest he's been able to hear Jon, provided he's all the way down at the Archives, but Gerry doesn't give the realization much thought, focused as he is on the serious, resigned cadence of Jon's voice. He certainly doesn't _sound_ like he's in danger, but Gerry still doesn't like- "Goodbye, Helen."

And it all clicks in Gerry's mind.

"Fuck-" Gerry takes off running towards the building, not knowing or caring if Melanie keeps up. Jon promised he wouldn't do this, Jon knows this is crazy, it-

He hears a sound like a slamming door, and Gerry falls like a puppet whose strings have been snipped in a single cut. It's only his remaining inertia that takes him a few last inches towards the Institute, before he's collapsing on the pavement. He feels his lip and forehead split against the entry steps with awful clarity, but he couldn't care less, because whatever pain his body's experiencing pales in comparison to the _agony_ inside him right now. 

It feels as though they have taken all the air from his lungs and replaced it with red hot nails, like someone is digging at his brain with an awl, like his very soul is being ripped out of his chest, and he knows this is a punishment. The Eye tried to warn him, and Gerry ignored it, and now Jon is _gone_.

"-rry? What's going on?!" Melanie's voice is frantic, like she's looking for something she can kill to fix this, and it's the last thing he hears. 

\--

When he comes back to, Melanie's half dragging, half pushing him -he thinks, detachedly, that it must've looked funny as she dragged his semi conscious bulk around the Institute, Gerry's not a small man and Melanie hides a surprising amount of power in her tiny frame- onto the break room sofa. Gerry tries to support some of his own weight, and she drops him with a start. Whatever injuries the pavement gave him ache at the sudden movement, but he's got bigger things to worry about.

"-ffin. Coffin," Gerry mumbles. Melanie gasps, and when he parts his eyelids he finds her looking at him in concern. It's not a look he's ever seen on Melanie, and he has enough presence of mind to feel flattered. "He's gone. He-"

"Gerry, it's alright," Melanie tries, as clumsy as Jon in her attempts at softness. "He- he said he'd be, he has his rib-"

"His _what_?"

Melanie's expression quickly turns to guilt, and she squeezes and pulls at her fingers in what must be nerves. "He wanted- I took him to the Bone Turner. He was trapped in Helen, and Jon got him to take out a rib. He said it would work as an anchor, and he'd be able to come back with Daisy."

"Oh god-" Gerry groans. Of course, _of course_ Jon would- "That won't work. That's not- Melanie it has to be something he _loves_!"

He'd thought Jon understood that much at least, but apparently he misunderstood just how _oblivious_ Jon is. Gerry knows with devastating certainty that a rib -or any other part of his body- just won't cut it, because he's never met anyone who hates himself so stubbornly and undeservingly as Jonathan Sims.

Melanie arches her eyebrows at his outburst. "Well, then you could-"

"Where's Martin?" Gerry cuts her short, pushing heavily off the sofa. His energy's coming back, and he thinks bitterly of how Jon practically _insisted_ on reading to him for hours these past days. The Flesh mark, the sad looks… a lot of things make a lot more sense in retrospect. He hears Melanie call out after him, but he's already off the door.

This is a terribly _Jon_ thing to do, he thinks as he stumbles down empty corridors, using a bit of juice to Know the way towards Elias' office. Gerry's _fuming_. For all her oversights as a person, Gertrude was at least aware of her importance. To the world, _and_ the people around her, regardless of whether she considered the latter nothing but a handy tool. Jon thinks his only value lays on the people he saves, and Gerry's going to _kill_ him if he gets back. 

_When_ he gets back, Gerry corrects himself fiercely as he bangs on the luxurious oak door. The only signs of life behind it are the thin wisps of fog curling out from below it, and the gold plate with Elias' name reflects his face mockingly.

"Open the door!" Gerry bangs harder. "I know you're there, I'm not leaving!"

Once again there's no answer, and Gerry starts backing up to the opposite wall. He's going to get Jon back even if he has to break the door down and hoist Martin over his shoulder to drag him to the Archives.

The door swings open. "What do you want?" Martin asks, still mostly translucent other than his white-knuckled hand around the doorknob. "You're bleeding. Or something."

"Jon went into the Buried." Gerry wipes his hand against the cut on his forehead. It comes back stained in a pitch black fluid with a tangy metallic smell he recognizes quickly enough, and he wipes it clean on his jeans. He'll worry about that later.

"He _what_?" Gray seeps out of Martin's eyes, leaving behind a nice forest green, and Gerry feels a crashing wave of relief wash over him. His suspicions were right; whatever the hell Martin thinks he's doing with Lukas, he loves Jon, and Gerry's not alone. "Why would he do that?"

"Apparently there's a Daisy in there? Come on, the coffin's at the Archives," Gerry shrugs, and he gestures back the way he came.

"... Daisy the cop? The one who tried to slit his throat?" Martin arches an eyebrow as they walk, and Gerry has to stop and take a grounding breath. Of fucking course. 

"I'm guessing that's the one." Gerry pinches at the bridge of his nose. Maybe this is actually how Archivists hunt- maybe they don't need any statements, they just drive you crazy. When he opens his eyes Martin is looking at him with a decidedly amused glint in his eyes.

"It's not an easy job, eh?" Martin asks with a soft smile, and he starts walking again. "What do you want me to do?"

"You're his anchor. Call him. If he's not too far already, he should be able to hear you." It has to be enough, Gerry thinks. It has to, because otherwise he'll have to accept that Jon slipped through his fingers when he should've seen this coming from a mile away. That Jon is gone because he couldn't stop him.

"Oh." Martin stops on his tracks, the determination on his face giving way to something more guarded. "I'm- I don't think I can help, then-"

"Oh my God! Are you kidding me?" Gerry groans. These two are _pathetic_. Gerry's lost count of how many times he's had to bite back on how he doesn't think Martin deserves the sheer longing and pain that radiates from Jon's face every time he even mentions the man. "This is ridiculous, and I don't have time to discuss with you. For whatever reason, he-"

"You're still bleeding. Why is it black?" Martin interrupts him, and Gerry holds back the urge to scream. Is this why they like each other? Because they're both stubborn and mulish and refuse to accept they might have value for someone else? 

"Fuck it. We don't have time for this." He's going in himself, he's tied to Jon, that has to count for something. He goes to sidestep Martin, when a hand clamps down on his wrist. Gerry looks back at him, and Martin's bright green eyes are filled to the brim with intense suspicion. "Martin, _Jon_ doesn't have time for th-"

"How do you know he can still come back?" Martin asks, his voice heavy with mistrust and hope in equal measures.

Gerry wants to say something scathing, or at least something that will get Martin _moving_ , because Jon needs them. And if the truth is what it takes, then so be it.

"I don't know. Nobody knows. But I'm still alive, and that means he still exists," Gerry says. The acrid smell of ink fills the space between them as it drips from the cuts on his face. Martin's eyes are sharp as he starts connecting the dots, and Gerry has no trouble whatsoever believing that this is the man that outsmarted the Eye's Pupil.

"So- so what does that mean? You know how to find him?" Martin asks, and Gerry shakes his head.

"I can't hear him anymore," Gerry sighs. A fat drop of ink runs down the side of his face. "He's no longer here."

"That's- don't say that." Martin says firmly, and there's something steely under his soft, gentle features. "He'll find a way back, Jon always does. We just have to trust him. Now is there anything we can do so you stop bleeding all over the place? Inking? Whatever it is, let's- let's stop it." 

Gerry blinks as Martin pulls out a package of paper tissues from his pocket and offers it to him, a man he neither likes nor has ever been even remotely kind to him. Knowing Jon like he does now, this explains a lot.

"I doubt it's going to stop anytime soon," he says, grabbing the offered tissues. "Not without Jon here to talk to me. His voice is what keeps my body working."

Martin seems to mull this over for a bit, as Gerry soaks up tissue after tissue. Is he made up entirely of ink? Should they be like... keeping this in a bucket, if only to use it later? Gerry gives his hands a quick once over, and sighs in relief when he finds his tattoos are still there.

"...Oh" Martin lets out a little surprised exhale. Gerry whips his head up to look at him. 

"What? What is it?" Gerry asks. A slow smile is spreading over Martin's lips, and Gerry can't help but to feel hopeful. Martin might be a naive idiot who thinks he can play the Lonely to his favor, but if anyone has the slightest chance at saving Jon-

"Come with me."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Check out this cute art from [chapter 1](https://iamthehelperdog.tumblr.com/post/617339065608585216/some-good-moments-of-gerry-being-a-touchy-person) and [chapter 5](https://iamthehelperdog.tumblr.com/post/618107222684237824/im-an-illicio-fan-blog-now-another-scene-from) made by Iamthehelperdog on Tumblr!!
> 
> I also wrote a [fluffy JonGerryMartin AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189784) about the boyfriends having a *clenches fist* nice day at a cafe based on their art, if you wanna check it out

**VII**

There's people around him, that much Jon knows. He hears them trying to move, trying to dig not even to escape, but just to carve a pocket of air big enough to pull in a mouthful of air before everything closes down again. They don't know and they don't care, that the pressure around them is not always dirt or water. Sometimes it's sadness. Guilt. The Buried has no qualms against using the memories of those you left behind to drag you in further.

He knows the way to Daisy, but only barely. The only hint he has as to her whereabouts is the dull ache of the scar across his throat, and Jon Knows with a feeling of grim satisfaction that the only reason he's able to even feel that much is because made sure to feed beforehand. Still, a single thought plays through his mind on repeat, the only thing that keeps him moving forward anymore. 

He doesn't know the way back.

The rib stopped calling to him as soon as the lid slammed shut above his head, and Jon has the bitter thought that he could've skipped the encounter with Hopworth, for all the good it did to him. 

Jon's next step sinks up to his ankle, as his thoughts turn dark. Why did he think he could save anyone? When has that ever worked? This was nothing but his arrogance. Another failure at helping what he broke. Gertrude stopped dozens of rituals on her own, but Jon had to bring an entire team into the Unknowing, and make everyone but him pay for his incompetence. Gerry was right, this was a mistake and-

Gerry.

The name has his stomach constricting with guilt, and the Buried clings to it like a ravenous dog; the thick mud he's wading through swallows him up to his thighs in a single motion. Gerry's going to die, or- or worse. Without Jon's voice to feed him he's going to waste away, trapped forever in his own body because Jon made a stupid choice for them both. Gerry- Jon was supposed to make things right for him. Jon was- Gerry has done nothing but be nice and patient to him, and Jon left him alone. 

Was this the Eye's plan? To tie him to someone as intrinsically _good_ as Gerry, so that Jon would think it twice before throwing himself into danger again? Gerry's playful, easy kindness has made Jon feel... wanted. He knows he doesn't deserve it; that the warmth in his stomach when he looks up from his reading to find Gerry's face relaxed in his sleep is dangerous.

Jon's affection is poisonous, and one needs only to look at how it's killing Martin to confirm it.

The pressure is up to his waist now, and the memory of Martin's gray eyes only pulls him deeper. The Eye should've chosen a less selfish Archivist, because these two men tried their hardest to keep him safe, and Jon was still ungrateful enough to throw it all away, just to try and earn back a little bit of worth in his own eyes. To be a savior for once, instead of a monster.

Jon closes his eyes, as the heavy pressure of dirt or water or guilt closes up over his head.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

Martin looks away from the bright screen, and slides a hand under his glasses to rub at his closed eyes. It's been three hours, but he's finally finished putting this month's payroll in order. He will _definitely_ not need to lie about his capabilities on his next job interview. Or he wouldn't, if he were actually able to just walk away from this mess. 

A single, dormant tape recorder rests next to the keyboard, and Martin gives it a sad look. It appeared on his desk yesterday, about five minutes before Gerard started banging against the door and, if he had to guess, at around the last second before Jon stepped inside the coffin, because the entities have that kind of humor. 

The button clicks when he presses it, and the tape begins to move as usual, but it lacks the feeling of life the recorders usually have when they turn up around Martin. This may have been one of Jon's tapes, but whatever part of him that was inside it is long gone. 

"Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding... a lost Archivist," Martin sees the fog encroaching the office as he speaks, and he sighs. "What were you thinking, Jon? Actually, scratch that. I think I can guess exactly what you were thinking," Martin feels the pinch of resentment and anger burning in his stomach. The fog around him recedes for a moment. "Some weird combination of 'this was all my fault, and I have to set it right if it kills me', and 'It's not that bad if it kills me, because I'm a monster anyways'. Sometimes I don't know if- are you ever going to stop trying to hurt yourself?"

His eyes burn, and Martin yanks his glasses off his face and all but throws them on the desk to bury his face in his hands. This is ridiculous. Jon is- this is how he is, Martin knew it from the start, when he stopped daydreaming about the smooth voice and hypnotic dark eyes and started noticing the many subtle ways Jon neglected himself, and it drew Martin like a moth to a flame. 

The broken ones are the safest, because he can tell himself that they'll love him when he fixes them, all the while being blissfully aware that he can't. The openly relieved, almost _adoring_ look on Jon's face the first time they ran into each other after Jon came back was the most terrifying thing Martin had ever faced. And now here he is, selling himself over to try and protect a man he forgot he can't protect from himself.

"You're coming back, aren't you? You have to. You can't do this to me again Jon, I can't-" Martin doesn't even care that his voice sounds slightly wet. He feels suspiciously like himself, all this _emotion_ is not something he's used to anymore. "End recording."

Martin takes in a deep, strained breath. That's- it's alright. He still has a purpose. Melanie's still here, and Basira. There's people to look after. There's work to do and-

"Are you done with that?" Martin's head whips up, and his hands scramble over the desk to find his glasses and jam them back on his face just in time to see Helen reaching for the tape recorder. The door to Elias' stationary cabinet is no longer obscenely expensive mahogany, but a gaudy yellow material instead.

"What?"

Helen shrugs at an angle that shoulders should never move, and Martin averts his eyes before he can get a headache. "I usually grab them when you leave but you didn't seem like you were going anywhere now."

Martin blinks. "I- that's not- why do you want my tape? Have you been stealing my tapes?"

"Only some of them. The ones that don't go back to Jon immediately. Also it's not stealing if you leave them behind. Finder's keepers."

"Finder- why do you want my tapes?" Martin wishes his face didn't feel so hot. One would think being halfway into the Lonely already would spare him from being embarrassed over this, but there's clearly something still very human in him that's _mortified_ at Helen hearing his sad tea parties with the tapes. This might just be enough to kill it. "What are you doing with them?"

"Not much. You don't take very good care of them, but he can't come into my hallways."

"He- do you mean Peter?"

Helen blinks once, her eyelids moving horizontally. "Can I have it now?"

"I- uhm. That's- that's actually very nice of you," Martin frowns. It's difficult to discern sometimes, if Helen is actually on anyone's side or just enjoys puzzling them. "Thank you?"

"So can I ha-"

" _Yes_ , you can have it." Martin rolls his eyes, and Helen's fingers wrap many times around the tape recorder. "Please don't show them to any-" the yellow door closes, before Martin can finish, and he darts a look around the office.

It would be just his luck if Peter stepped out of the Lonely right now, but there's barely any fog left in the office. Martin sighs. He needs to call it back, or it'll look suspicious. 

Martin closes his eyes, and thinks of his mother. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'm just really glad you're keeping up with therapy. I know it made you very antsy at first," Georgie smiles behind her coffee cup. Melanie's brain goes blank for a couple seconds. She loves Georgie's smiles, her dark lipstick contrasting starkly with the white of her teeth when her full lips part just the slightest bit. 

"It's- I feel better," Melanie says once she's regained her faculties. Then she adds, "but I think my favorite part of going is that I get to be with you," because she's a tiger, not a kitten.

"Are we doing this?" Georgie laughs, and her cheeks darken a little. Melanie doesn't think her heartbeat was this intense during even the worst episodes of the Slaughter.

"I could do this. If you wanted to," Melanie reaches out slowly and rests her hand palm up on the table. It's a hand that has slashed and maimed and killed, but it's trembling somewhat as it waits on the wooden surface. 

Georgie's big dark eyes glint with amusement, and the warmth in Melanie's chest is enough that she forgets about everything else for a moment. The Institute, the fears, nothing is as important as the curve of Georgie's smile.

"I'd like to do this. If you're feeling better," and she lays her hand on Melanie's, giving it a little squeeze. 

"I do. I feel amazing, I'm cured. It's a miracle," Melanie blurts out, and Georgie laughs animatedly, before leaning over the table to plant a kiss on Melanie's forehead. "Thank you."

The world could end tomorrow, Melanie thinks; all the fears out there can't touch them inside the little restaurant.

"I'm here for you." Georgie nuzzles her nose against Melanie's. "You're... very brave, Melanie."

\-------

Melanie's still floating a little by the time Georgie drops her off at the Institute. With all that's happened lately in her life, this feels a little too good to be true. Of course, reality crashes back down on her soon enough. 

"How are you holding up?" Melanie pushes open the door to Jon's office, the man's recorded voice reaching her immediately "...oh"

Gerry's asleep on the desk, a hand clenched tight around a playing tape recording, and he looks terrible. The injuries on his face haven't healed at all; listening to the tapes slows the bleeding, but Melanie knows if she were to press stop on the tape, the papery white flesh under Gerry's skin would seep with dark ink again.

Melanie sighs, and walks up to him to see how much longer the recording has left. Jon's talking about worms and fire extinguishers, and the spool is almost empty of tape. She reaches over to the pile of unlistened tapes by the desk, and selects one at random. There's an empty recorder on one of the bookshelves, and she crams the tape inside it and presses play before dropping it next to Gerry. This should last until he wakes up at least.

She doesn't want to think of what they'll do when they run out of tapes.

"At least he's alive," Helen observes, coming out of a door that should've led to the break room. "Or not. Existing, I guess."

"That would be a way of putting it," Melanie purses her lips in a tight line. "I- this is sort of my fault I guess. I shouldn't have taken him with Hopworth."

"He would've known eventually. Like with your bullet," Helen says, shrugging. "He might still come back."

"I don't care-" Melanie starts, then stops and sighs. "I do want him to come back. For them. I still haven't told Georgie because I don't want her to be sad, I think Jon pestering him was the only thing still keeping Martin from whatever stupid plan he's attempting, and it's only been two days but Gerry's already dying." She huffs. It _was_ a lot easier when all she could feel was rage. 

"I wouldn't worry about Martin," Helen says simply, and Melanie snorts.

"You're lucky I like your cryptic bullshit." Melanie looks towards the closed door of Jon's office, and the weight on her shoulders intensifies. "I should call Basira."

"Good luck with that"

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

Jon doesn't dream like before, in here. Or rather he does, and he's just not used to the way humans dream anymore, all wishful thinking and nonsensical thoughts strung together.

_Tim looks down at him and says he forgives him, before pressing down on the detonator. Sometimes he even climbs out of the rubble cackling like a madman and declaring they're all going for drinks because they stopped the apocalypse and they deserve it, and he throws an arm over Jon's shoulders like he used to do before the Archives._

_He walks into his office and Sasha -the real one, he knows, even though he cannot remember her face- is sitting at his desk, merrily going through his emails with a smug grin._

_Georgie picks up his calls. She tells him about her life, and she says she doesn't like that he's accepted this, but she knows he didn't choose it._

_Martin's eyes are green and bright. They're sitting at a coffee shop and Jon's hand is free of scars -burns or worms- where his fingers slot perfectly between Martin's, and they're joking about how Martin ordered tea despite his unreachable tea standards._

_Gerry's napping on his sofa because he wants to, not because he doesn't have anywhere else to go, and Jon sits on the floor next to him just to be able to hear him breathe. He's suddenly enveloped in a warm, tight embrace, and all around him it smells like peroxide and lavender. The mix should be jarring but it's not because it means he's safe, and he's home. Wherever that is._

Jon opens his eyes to darkness, and a single, muted _click_ from somewhere on his body.

"I've been... sleeping, I think," he says, because he remembered he's supposed to speak when the tape recorder turns on. "Or I've been dreaming, at least. When I- I'm deeper in, every time I wake up, as if allowing my mind a momentary escape from the reality I find myself in only serves to condemn me even further. I suppose I could stop sleeping, it's not like I need to anymore, but- I don't think I want to."

Jon heaves a sigh that tastes like moist dirt and desperation, before he starts dragging himself forward. If he's awake, he should be moving at least, because the Buried presses on closer the longer he stays still. 

"How long have I been here for? It feels like weeks. Months, maybe. By this point I have already accepted I'm not going to find what I came looking for, so why shouldn't I give myself the respite of my dreamscape? It doesn't really matter how much deeper I get dragged in. I don't Know the way back." The dull ache in his throat remains; a bitter reminder of- of what? "...What _did_ I come here for? I- I had a reason, I'm sure. Was it... did I lose something here?"

He can feel the knowledge dancing just at the edge of his mind, and his throat throbs harder the more he thinks about it. The path before him -if there even is something that could be called a "path", here at this pit that feeds on despair- gets rougher. Jon feels rocks and roots dig against his arms, slicing at the skin in places as he moves.

"I don't- I can't remember what I lost," he mumbles to himself. The pain in his throat intensifies, and so does the pressure around his body. He goes to move again, but- but he can't. "I'm- I'm stuck. I can't-" he pulls and pushes,and he hears his bones creak and the dirt around him shift, but the Buried doesn't want to let him go. 

If that weren't enough, the pain in his throat keeps growing more and more intense. Did he cut himself on a rock while he slept? It's- no, he... he had it before coming here and- the Buried presses down harder on him, but he Knows this, the scar on his neck, the sound of a gunshot-

"Daisy?" Jon calls out with his last breath, and the Buried crumbles over him. Sharp rocks dig into him, and the weight is too much to breathe. His open mouth fills with dirt so tightly packed around him he can't even lift his eyelids-

"Jon?!"

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

_"-made the mistake of spending an entire night outside my safehouses. I was almost beaten to death by an angry goth."_

_"That would be our Gerard."_

Gerry pauses the tape again, and rewinds it the past couple seconds before going to rub at his temples. It doesn't help with the throbbing headache -nothing has, and he suspects nothing will unless- _until_ Jon comes back- but it's what one does when one has a headache, and it does make him feel better, somehow.

Did Martin know what was in the tapes he left behind before taking off with the rest? Gerry's heard every recording that mentions him in passing, even the one in which his page gets destroyed. It was... nice, to hear Jon shake off the Beholding's barbed grasp to keep his promise to him. The pained grunts and gasps as the page burned away in the background were decidedly less so.

Click. _"-almost beaten to death by an angry goth-"_. Click.

Logically, Gerry knows it wouldn't have solved anything or helped anyone. But after listening to Jon's little adventure with the spider book, he wishes harder than ever that he'd finished the job. 

Leitner had had all the damned books in his possession once. He could've destroyed them, instead of just writing his name on them and stashing them on a shelf. A Guest For Mister Spider had been clearly meant to emulate a children's book, was Leitner too much of an idiot to figure out how that would end up?

Gerry has seen the result, and it's a man who walks into eternal torture because he lives in a constant state of survivor guilt.

"Are you still listening to that one?" Helen's echo-y voice asks by his elbow. Gerry looks down to find she's turned the bottom of an open desk drawer into her door. Gerry can only see about half of her face, but he has no doubt she'd be able to push herself through and unfold to her full size.

"It's just..." Gerry shrugs. He needs to keep playing tapes, and listening to the same ones again and again renders them less effective each time. But he can't bring himself to push the one with Leitner's questioning away. It's something about the circumstances of the two men involved; one with all his knowledge, hiding like a coward for decades, while the other one, so terribly scared, braves the unknown just to learn. Of course the Beholding wanted him. "It's hard to explain."

Click. The low chuckle sends a jolt of something straight to Gerry's stomach. _"That would be our Gerard."_. Click.

It really is hard to explain. When did this happen?

"Hm. Melanie's worried about you," Helen says. Her eyes are swirling as she runs them over Gerry's hunched form, and her lips curl with distaste. "You don't look good."

Gerry laughs, or he tries to, before it devolves into a wet cough that leaves droplets of ink sprinkled all over the desk. "That tracks. I have never felt so far from good in my life."

"What about when you were a book?"

"When I was a book I didn't have to worry about a man that seems to be actively trying to run face first into any entity he can find," Gerry sighs. "Did he- do you think you could have stopped him?" He asks. The thought has been plaguing him nonstop over the past two days. Jon knew going into the coffin meant death, Gerry made that very clear that day at the flat. Jon is also extremely depressed and lacks a self preservation instinct at the best of times. "I know you were there when he went in."

"If you couldn't do it, what makes you think I would've had better chances?" 

And isn't that another fun little link in the blame chain? Gerry had thought making it about Martin would be enough, that Jon's love for the man would outweigh his hatred for himself. Now he's paying for the mistake. 

"What did Martin do in there?" Gerry asks instead of responding. Martin had locked the door behind him after coming out, and handed Helen the key before going back to Elias' office. A smart move, Gerry has to admit. The Distortion is the only one inhuman enough to not be lured in by the unchained coffin. 

"He placed the tapes around it," Helen's voice resonates even more oddly than usual inside the small drawer. "They've been playing. They rewind on their own." Which is a good sign, all things considered, but Gerry's mind latches on to one detail only. 

"He didn't even try," he spits out. He'd also thought, hoped really, that what Martin felt for Jon would be strong enough to call him back. Martin doesn't think the same, clearly, and Gerry can't help but to feel a little bitter about it. "I told Jon he could do better."

"I'm going to leave now," is all Helen says. Nice, not even the monsters want to hear Gerry mope around over a man in love with someone who doesn't deserve him. He goes to close the drawer after Helen's door disappears, and stops when he notices the tapes at the bottom. Were they there before? He doesn't think so. 

Whatever, they're the closest within hand's reach, and Gerry can already feel cut at his forehead welling with inky black blood.

Click. _"Hello there."_ Martin's voice coming out of the tape instead of Jon's feels like a slap to the face. _"Not doing anything really interesting right now, but you can stay if you want."_ Gerry clicks the tape off with a huff.

It clicks back on right away.

"Really?" Gerry glares at the tape, because it's the best substitute he has for Jon. In the background, Martin complains about Peter Lukas being exhausting, which Gerry guesses is true but also probably the least remarkable thing to complain about Peter Lukas. "You're trapped in another dimension and you're _still_ going to defend him?" 

Gerry clicks the tape off again just to be contrary, right as Martin mentions something going extinct. He can almost picture the stubborn curve to Jon's lips as the button clicks back on. 

"Ugh. Fine, _fine_." Gerry reaches for a tissue to wipe at the ink on his forehead. "I'm going to listen to it, but just this one, or I'm going to bleed all over your office, and I'm _not_ in the mood to clean that up."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

Elias knows the value of waiting.

He's learned through trial and error the importance of good timing, and how moving a piece a second too soon can change the entire board so irreversibly that it leaves you no choice but to start over.

Gertrude, for example, had only been the latest failure in a long line of unrealized Archivists, though she was by far the most remarkable out of them all. Elias is ashamed to admit he ruined her for himself; if he'd been more careful about what he pushed her to discover, perhaps she wouldn't have noticed her transformation until it was too late. A pity, but of course it had been her discoveries that sparked the idea of the Watcher's Crown, so not a total loss. 

There's not much to do at jail except for waiting and watching anyways. Waiting for meals, for breaks, for Peter, for Basira, for the time to walk out of this gray, boring confinement.

For now, Elias Watches his Archivist.

There are certain places where even the Pupil is blind, but the Buried does not care that you see how trapped you are, and it leaves itself open to being Known. 

Jon has just found Daisy, and they cling to each other like twins in the womb, the only thing they know and love in this world of darkness and pressure that has claimed them for itself. Elias is not above being surprised -his current domicile can attest to that-, but he can't deny his stubborn, raggedy Archivist has once again proved more resilient than he expected. 

Elias really hopes he makes it out of the coffin, because it would mean he has a real possibility of escaping the Lonely when the time comes. The Forsaken and the Buried have so many things in common.

Also, because it would be a real shame to lose him so close to the end, and he doubts he could find someone else with the sheer luck -or the blessing of the Web- needed to survive these many marks. 

He tries calling him one more time, but while the Buried doesn't seem to care that Elias looks inside it, it's not about to give up two victims. Pity. Jon's on his own it seems.

There's a knock at his door, three single, evenly spaced hits Elias recognizes immediately. 

"How unexpected," he calls out as he pushes his hair back and straightens his shirt. A wasted effort on his future visitor, but it's the _principle_ of the thing. "Please do come in, Peter."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

In the years since she’s been trapped in the coffin, Daisy has begun to wonder if she actually knows anything about herself. How much of what she considered her personality was actually just the beast boiling just beneath her skin, waiting for the right moment to pounce?

Daisy doesn’t consider herself to be a particularly difficult woman to understand. She’s unpredictable, a creature of emotion; she loves and she hates with the same fierce passion that called the Hunt to her, and her loyalty’s hard to win and harder still to lose, the driving force that calls her back whenever she’s too lost in the sound of her own blood. She’s ran into a few of her kind before, and she knows this is a shared trait between those who serve the Hunt. A bit of a bad joke, really, that all hunters instinctively seek a pack. She mentioned it once to Basira, but she didn’t seem to find it funny -Daisy always did have a weird sense of humor-, and it had made that odd underlying tension in their every interaction even heavier.

She wonders now, which part of her it was that saw Jonathan Sims and disliked him immediately, and she hopes it was the hunter rather than the woman, because she has come to the conclusion that she has never misjudged a person this badly in her life.

“I’m sorry, Daisy.” Jon says again. He apologizes a lot. Daisy thinks she had noticed this before, but she just didn’t care back then. “I thought- I’m sorry I can’t pull us out.”

“It’s not- you still- you found me,” Daisy says. It’s difficult to form thoughts in here, but her words have been coming back slowly ever since Jon’s hand found hers in the dark. Whether it’s whatever remains of his powers, or just Daisy remembering how to be a person again is really anyone’s guess. “We’re together.”

“Yes, we- is that better?” Jon’s left hand tightens in the fabric of her shirt, and his right twitches as it tries to do the same. It’s burned, Daisy remembers suddenly, and she has the briefest flash of rage, the urge to find Jude Perry and _kill_. The Buried presses harder around her, quelling the sound of her blood. “Daisy?” Jon’s voice pulls her back, something to focus on other than the feeling of dust in her throat.

“I think- y- yes,” she says after a moment, the thought sudden but hard to get out. “Yes. I- it’s much better. Th- Jon, thank you.” She clings to him a bit tighter, when the dirt around them shifts and tries to get between them. The Buried can try all it wants, but Jon is hers now, and it won’t take him from her, the same way it couldn’t take away the memory of Basira’s firm, grounding voice.

“Good, I- that’s good.” Jon’s head rests on her shoulder, and Daisy’s chest tightens impossibly, the feeling completely different to the pressure of the entity around her.  
Whatever happens now, she’s not alone.

\----

Airports are odd places to be at. There's something strange about a space that was designed to be just comfortable enough that you can stand to wait until you're finally allowed to leave it. A tired man with a crying baby in his arms pulls his suitcase out of the luggage belt and turns to leave. Basira feels something in her rear up like a snake in the grass; this man has some kind of information for Jon, and as he walks towards the automated doors he seems to leave behind a trail of fluorescent footsteps, visible only to her but so _easy_ to follow, if she needed to find him. 

Her phone rings in her pocket, and Basira shakes her head. The trail goes cold and fades from her mind as she pulls the device out and brings it to her ear.

"It's me. What now?" Basira says into the speaker as soon as the call connects. It's been a while since she's had friends who call only to catch up, and she doubts Melanie's one of those. 

Melanie's voice sounds odd through the line. Nervous, somehow. 

"I did, some things." Basira sighs. "Melanie did you kill Jon?"

An elderly woman waiting next to her shoots her an alarmed stare, and Basira gives her a little wave and a shake of her head. The woman sighs and seems to relax a little as Melanie speaks some more.

"What do you mean 'not just me'? Melanie did someone kill Jon?"

The woman moves further away to keep waiting for her suitcase.

"I'm- what? Why did you- Melanie I told you to be _nicer_ to him, not help him kill himself." Basira can feel a migraine starting to bloom behind her eyes. "Yes of course Keay's dying he- yes I knew, Elias told- I _forgot_ to tell you okay? I had more important things to do."

She spots her suitcase a few pieces away on the belt and shoves her way to it, yanking it to the floor with a sharp tug and walking off in the gap the other travelers have opened for her.

"I'm on my way. Don't do _anything_."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing to link today, just letting y'all know I really appreciate all of you and your comments, thank you!!

**VIII**

"Jon?" Daisy's voice is slightly panicked, and it sends a pang through Jon's chest. He's learned what it means, by now.

"I'm here-" he says, giving her hand a squeeze. Daisy squeezes back so hard it hurts; that's good, down here. It helps remind you there's feelings other than fear. "Is it-?"

"It's coming agai-" is all Daisy manages to say before it _is_ there. Dirt presses in all around them, and though Jon shuts his mouth tight it somehow finds a way in, like it always does. It cram up his nose, down his throat, into his eyes and somehow that last one is the most terrible of them all, and Jon has to remind himself not to let go of Daisy's hands to try and scrub at them. He opens his mouth to scream, but all that slides into his lungs is heavy mud, the kind you can step on and not sink, and definitely not the kind you can breathe through, and his lungs _burn_ -

And it's gone.

Everything recedes at once -it doesn't go away, it never does-, just far back enough that Jon can take in a gasp of air that is only mostly dust.

"D-daisy?" his voice is slightly panicked.

"I'm here," it feels like an eternity goes by before Daisy squeezes at his hand, and he squeezes back as hard as he can, enough that it hurts his joints."Talk to me," Daisy asks, _begs_. "T- tell me... tell me about home."

There's a certain quality to her voice on the last word, a longing Jon has heard and felt and mourned before, and Jon knows without a shadow of a doubt that she means Basira. Dirt shifts around and away from them, and Jon wonders once again if their tether isn't strong enough that, in a few years, Daisy might have found the way out by herself. The thought shouldn't bring him relief after he climbed in himself like an imbecile, but it somehow does still. It means, at least, that Daisy hasn't given up.

"Basira had just left when I- she has been seeing Elias at jail. Martin's- the plan worked, by the way. He's- Elias is gone from the Institute." An empty victory. Elias might not be there anymore, but his presence still weighs down on them all, and in leaving Peter Lukas in charge he both took a revengeful swipe at Martin, and exchanged a known evil with a dangerous new threat. "Nothing else really went according to plan."

"But something did," Daisy's arms tighten around him when the Buried tries to push them apart; it hates it when they say anything positive. Jon rests his head on Daisy's shoulder; the last person to really touch Jon before this idiotic excuse of a plan was Gerry, and he -mortifyingly- finds himself comparing the two. Daisy's frame is thinner after almost seven months in the coffin and her limbs are weak with disuse, but her grip is firm and though it should be suffocating here in the depths of the Buried Jon finds it grounding instead.

And well, it's not like he has any margin of reference for- Gerry has never held him like this. The closest thing was when Melanie stabbed him and Gerry practically carried him into a cab and then up the stairs to his flat. He- Gerry's... solid, is the first adjective Jon's brain can conjure, with his broad shoulders and wide chest, and the big, heavy arms he drapes around Jon's shoulders sometimes when they walk. Not as tall as Martin maybe, but still a good head taller than Jon, and-

"Jon?" Daisy asks, curiosity in her voice instead of fear this time.

"Hm?"

"You we- you were telling me about outside." Oh. 

"Ah- I- yes. Outside, I- sorry." Jon clears his throat, face burning so hot he's sure Daisy can feel it. This is _ridiculous_ , they're- he needs to focus. What he wouldn't give for the clarity of mind that reading a statement- oh. _Oh._. "Daisy." 

_Click._

"What is it?" Daisy tenses, and her voice has a slight growl to it. Their patrons can't reach them here, but they're still avatars, they-

"I think- I need a statement," Jon should feel guilty about asking this of Daisy when she's already suffered so much, but the Buried is pulling at him. Jon clenches to Daisy's shirt as tightly as he can; it knows what he's planning, it knows he's _right_. "I know it sounds- please, please trust me on this, I-"

"I do," Daisy's shaky voice cuts into his hysterical rambling. "I trust- I'll do it," she says, and Jon feels like sobbing.

"Alright," he clears his throat instead, "then... statement of Alice... of Daisy Tonner, regarding?"

Anything will do, and he Knows Daisy has stories to tell, stories he _needs_.

"The man that visits my dreams."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"How are you doing?" Melanie asks, sitting cross-legged next to him on the floor. Gerry looks up at her, the tape recorder whirring away on top of his chest. "Okay. Yes, stupid question."

Gerry sighs. It's- the fact that Melanie even cares shows amazing progress from the little monster of rage she was not a month ago. Under different circumstances, he'd feel happy about it.

"I'm better. The tapes help."

Melanie nods. "Martin has some good ideas."

"At times," Gerry mutters, feeling the familiar prickle of irritation at his stomach. He has some _words_ to tell Martin, after what he heard yesterday in the tapes. "I still think he should have at least tried to call Jon back."

"I don't understand any of that." Melanie nudges at his side with the tip of her sneaker. "If Martin could have called him, why couldn't you?"

Gerry sighs. "I told you. It's got to be something he loves. _Someone_ he loves, not-" he huffs, when Melanie arches an eyebrow. "You know it's not like that. You know it was never like that at all."

"I know it's not like that, but..." Melanie trails off, as if trying to find a way to say what she's thinking in a way that doesn't require mentioning feelings at all. "Is it _not_ like that?"

"Eloquent," Gerry says dryly, but Melanie's stare doesn't waver, and he knows by now she's like a dog with a bone. "It's complicated. You'd know."

"It's why I asked," Melanie shrugs. "Turns out things usually aren't as much as one might think."

Gerry rolls his eyes. He saw her just yesterday, hanging off the arm of the tall, dark skinned woman with curly hair and black lipstick -very different from Martin, Gerry had thought detachedly, Jon has varied tastes- who looked down at her like Melanie could disappear at any moment.

"Did one of you get resurrected as some sort of bargaining chip for the other?" Gerry asks, because at least _that_ part is easy to put into words. Much easier at least, than explaining how Jon somehow became a lot more than just the guy he needs to survive. "No? Thought so."

"Ass." Melanie's sneaker digs into his side a bit more viciously now. "He'll come back. He's- don't take it the wrong way, but he's like a cockroach."

"...I _want_ to take that the wrong way."

Melanie rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean."

Gerry bites at the ring on his lip, an old habit he stops immediately when he remembers how much it used to distract Jon every time he did it, and the gesture turns bitter instead of soothing. 

"Not much I can do about it anyways." And isn't that the worst part? Gerry has spent his whole life fighting the entities to save as many as he could, no matter how lost they looked. Now they took someone from him, and Gerry's hands are pretty much tied behind his back. The fact that Jon lied to him to do this only adds insult to injury, because Gerry can't even be angry at him because he's _gone_. "How's Georgie, anyways?" A door opens with a creak; Gerry guesses Helen will be joining them soon.

"Welcome back," Melanie says in a voice that could probably suck moisture out of the air, and Gerry turns to look at the door.

Basira stands at the threshold, and 'unimpressed' doesn't even begin to describe the look on her eyes. "We're going to have a talk," she says, and it somehow sounds like a threat.

"Cheers," Gerry grunts. Just what he needs right now.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I didn't really take it too seriously, when I started learning about this world. When you have things that steal faces, or trap people in nightmare dimensions, or- somehow things that _watch_ don't seem that dangerous. Then I went to the Institute.

I had been at Basira's neck about him for _weeks_. Sure, Basira and I were not at risk of being fired, sectioned officers are almost immune to that, but I did not like the thought of her getting any closer to this place, and handing evidence to a suspect under the table just felt like another line we would not be able to cross back. But truth is... her intuition had never failed us, and I was thinking clear enough to realize I was far more worried about her interest in this man than suspicious of him. I hadn't seen him yet, but every time Basira came back from their meetings with the stench of the Eye around her- I thought it had to be the place, and I started to fear she was becoming the kind of thing I had to deal with, because I wasn't sure I could do it with her.

That's when he was finally cleared of our investigation, and when she asked me to be the one to give you the updates, I knew two things immediately. First, she did like him, and didn't want to be the one to drop it on him that she'd only been using him. And second, there was definitely something off about him, because Basira didn't set me on people if she didn't have a reason to suspect.

I thought I was prepared, but- I had never met anyone with the Eye, and I had no clue of the kind of thing they do to your brain. He just _asked_ , and I was telling him about it all of a sudden; the rain that felt like it would drown us at every second, the truck covered in grime that seemed to drink in the water to turn into mud, rather than let itself be washed away as it should. The two men that were not men, the one that was, and... that.

I think what makes monsters of the Eye so dangerous is that they're sneaky. Of course I had nightmares about that night, I had been having them for years; now they were just... More frequent. Almost nightly, and when I saw him standing by the edge of the road just _staring_ , I thought it was only my subconscious adding him in because I didn't like him.

Basira is really the only reason I didn't kill him when I found him again; I could feel he was less human and that was enough for me, but she managed to talk me out of it. She wanted more information, and I wanted whatever she wanted, that's all it took for him to survive. 

The changes were easy to miss at first. Sometimes there was an extra eye on his cheek or on his neck, but they'd always be gone when I focused on him, and how much of a dream can you really take at face value? I thought it was just my unflattering thoughts about him filtering through to my sleeping mind. Then one time he opened his mouth like was about to tell me something, and there was another eyeball there, the pinprick pupil focused on Isaac as he walked into the damned thing like taking a stroll. It's fitting, I think, that he's not allowed to talk. Just to watch, and watch, and watch. 

Maybe killing him back then would have been better. Maybe I let Basira talk me out of the first and only act of mercy I have ever tried to do, because I am no longer convinced the man in my dreams is not as much of a victim as I."

"State- statement ends."

_Click._

"Was it- did it help?" 

"...I know the way."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Do you think you can find Jon if you go in after him?" Basira asks. It's not a solid lead, but it's been buzzing in her head ever since she climbed into the cab to come back from the airport. 

"Wow." Melanie whistles. "And here I was thinking Daisy and I were the murderous ones."

"I know you're tied to him, somehow." Basira ignores her. She knows Melanie has grown fond of the man, for whatever reason."Think it will be enough to find him?" 

"And how do you know that?" Keay arches a pierced eyebrow. He's far too calm, for someone who hasn't let go of the running tape recorder.

"Elias told me some things. Can we turn that off?" She asks. Jon's voice is starting to make her antsy, and a part of her that sounds suspiciously like an angry Daisy sardonically asks her if she's worried about the sad little monster. Sometimes Basira wonders if keeping her partner human wasn't doing the same for her.

"Yeah, that's not a great idea," Mel purses her lips by her side, and Basira frowns.

"No no, let's do it. She wants to know anyways, doesn't she?" Keay's smirk is defiant and dry, and he punches the stop button on the tape recorder. Basira watches his expression for any change... and soon enough the cuts on his face start oozing a pitch black fluid that runs down the side of his face. He doesn't bother to wipe it away, staring her down as if challenging her to comment on it.

Basira reaches across the table, and presses play on the recorder again. "Okay, so no."

"I'm tied to Jon. It doesn't mean Jon is tied to me," the man shrugs. It almost passes as casual, if it weren't for the slight furrowing of his brow. "I can't feel him anymore."

"...I could try." Basira mutters, and stiffens when both their glances fall on her. She- it's a bad idea and it probably won't work but this feels too much like the months after the Unknowing, with everything falling apart because Basira couldn't keep things under control. "I'm- I can find things. People. At least out here I can, maybe I could-"

"Well maybe you could. Apparently I know a lot less than I thought." Keay snaps suddenly, standing up so fast Basira flinches back. "Why don't we all go throw ourselves into the Buried, huh? Make a day trip out of it." He walks out the office, slamming the door behind him. 

"He's having a hard time," Melanie says, and the apology in her tone has Basira huffing angrily. He's not the only one who lost someone to the coffin, if anyone's allowed to 'have a hard time' it's her, but instead she's here, trying to fix everyone's mess as usual. "Basira?"

"What?" Her voice is angry and strained. She won't snap, she won't give them the satisfaction. She's in control.

"Don't go into the coffin." Melanie's voice is as soft as Basira has ever heard it, which is not too much, but still incredibly noticeable. "Jon and Daisy might survive it. You're just going to kill yourself."

"And?" When she turns to look at her, Melanie looks uncharacteristically troubled, until she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. 

"And I wouldn't like that," Melanie says, like every word is a battle hard won before she speaks it. "Don't go in. It's only been three days... let's give them some time."

Basira doesn't respond, and eventually Melanie climbs to her feet and leaves the room much more quietly than Keay, leaving behind only the running tape recorder.

This is too much.

Martin working with Lukas, Jon and whatever Keay is, even this new Melanie, it's all too much, and Basira doesn't have an ounce of control over any of it. How is she supposed to make this right when nothing makes sense? When she doesn't have all the information? Basira's supposed to be the tower, steady, firm and unbreachable, the last one standing when everything else has fallen. She'd always thought Daisy needed her far more than she needed Daisy, but now Basira feels her foundations crumble, with no one she can trust to share the load with. 

Her hands are shaking, and Basira clenches them into tight fists until they stop. It's alright. She'll make it work; the board has changed, all she has to do is rearrange her pieces. Plan her next move. She's worked through worse, she'll fix this one too. She just... she needs a break, a little one.

Basira buries her face in her hands, and waits until the urge to scream passes.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Distortion is confused. 

This is a tough problem to have, because the Distortion is usually confus _ing_ instead, condition rather than victim. Not to say the Distortion has never experienced the feeling; Michael had been plenty confused, when the Archivist accepted to walk through and instead found the door locked. But that's just the thing. Michael had been confused, whatever little scrap of twisted humanity left in him -in them, in it- was unsure of what to do next, or why he was doing this at this exact time.

Helen is _not_ confused, but Helen doesn't have a plan either. She makes decisions in the spur of the moment, following an instinct like a figure in a fractal, pointless and non important as all her other actions, until viewed from afar. Truly, the Distortion could hardly have chosen a better host, if it had ever had the chance to choose, instead of having Michael Shelley forced into its very being. Thinking about it, the Distortion should have learned to steer clear of Archivists by now.

What was the point of keeping the tapes? Of giving them away? The Distortion doesn't know; Helen doesn't either. All they -it, she?- know is that it felt like the right moment, and that's all it comes down to, really. 

It's not the right moment to reveal what they found at the center of the 'maze' -a child's game really, Robert Smirke could never begin to create something as beautiful and perfect as what Helen is by design- yet, and it won't be for a while still. 

The coffin is banging, and it is the right time to open her door on the ceiling of the Archives, and drop a key next to Basira, whose shoulders are shaking with effort.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Martin watches as the steam from the extra mug -Jon's mug, his mind supplies, and the room around him goes a bit grayer- raises in little hypnotic swirls that pass right through his hand, the warmth of it barely registering against his skin. He's not quite _in_ the Lonely yet, but these three days of knowing Jon is gone -that he _wanted_ to leave, this time- has done a fairly good job of pushing him further towards-

"Oh, you're here. Great. Amazing." 

Okay, tangible again. That was... that was a bit dizzying, the speed at which he was pulled back. Martin freezes at the annoyed voice behind him, and he swears once more that this is the _last_ time he comes to the Archives break room. When he turns around, Gerard is blocking the exit, leaning on the threshold with his arms crossed over his chest and ink running down his face.

"Ehm- yes." Martin clears his throat. "Yes I am. Do you need something?" He probably doesn't need to point out that Gerard is bleeding again, right? He has to know, and it would be rude.

"I do, actually." Martin's eyes widen as Gerard pushes off from the door, closes it and _locks_ it behind him. This is- there are only a few ways this can end and he's not looking forward to any of them. Gerard steps heavily towards him, and Martin has a split second of panic because he never learned to throw a punch, and he knows for a fact this man can- "I heard your tapes."

Oh. Oh great, this is even _worse_. He should've known better than trusting Helen, but this is- "...Okay, so what?"

"Cut it. I know you think you're playing Lukas, what I don't understand is what for." Gerard walks all the way up to him, forcing Martin to back up against the counter and look down at him. "What is the Extinction?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business."

"Jon cares." Gerard's blue-green eyes harden, and Martin's lips tighten into a line. "I thought it was just another way to hurt himself and you were just an arrogant fool, but after _that_ -"

"After that what?" Martin says then, much more ferociously than he'd expected, but he feels himself grow bolder after the snap. He will not be made ashamed of loving Jon, not when it's the only thing he has left. Peter can't take it from him, and neither can this man. Martin has never had a good tolerance for hypocrites anyways.

"After that I just believe you're a fool. But a fool with a good reason, at least." Gerard's eyebrows draw together, as if he somehow still doesn't approve of this revelation. "And Jon wanted to keep you safe, more than anything."

"Well, Jon's not here, is he?" Martin says as firmly as he can, hoping it hurts the man before him as much as it hurts him. 

"No he's not, but if he wanted you safe then that's exactly what I'm going to do, whether you like it or not." Gerard huffs, rolling his eyes as he jabs his pointer finger in Martin's chest. "And believe me, Martin Blackwood, when I say I will make sure I _ruin_ any and all plans you have made if you don't _work with me_."

"What- you can't force me to tell you?" Martin sort of asks. As far as he knows that's an Archivist thing, but who knows what Gerard actually is-

"No, but if I heard your tapes right, we're both doing this for him." Right. Asides from someone very much taken with Jon, of course. 

"You don't even know what 'this' is," Martin crosses his arms over his chest, batting Gerard's hands away. "Will you go away if I tell you?"

"Go find out."

Martin bites his bottom lip. Arguing with Gerard has brought him back completely, at least for the time being, and he's thinking fairly clearly for the first time in three days. He would know, wouldn't he? Peter is certain it was Adelard Dekker who discovered the Extinction, he keeps insisting there must be some letters addressed to Gertrude about it somewhere in the Archives. If Gertrude knew, then Gerard has to know as well, right?

"...Alright. But you can't-" you can't tell Jon about it, he wants to add, when he remembers that's... not a possibility at the moment. "Peter thinks there's a fifteenth entity. Something called the Extinction. He thinks Dekker told Gertrude about it."

Gerard's lips curl in what looks like distaste. "Might as well have. What does that have to do with you aligning with the Lonely?"

"Honestly? I have no idea. He's very cryptic about it," Martin shrugs, averting his eyes until they land on the tea mugs. He likes the Lonely. It's... easier. "But it was the deal we made when he first came to the Institute. People are... safer, this way. As long as I keep my end."

His words are followed by a silence that stretches for so long that Martin ends up looking back. He finds Gerard staring up at him with a thoughtful -if slightly unimpressed- frown. 

"Keep doing that, then. Or, keep making him believe you're doing it." Gerard says after a pause. "I'll get to looking into the Extinction. With some luck I'll find something before you're too far gone."

Martin arches and eyebrow. "Peter says I'm halfway there already, and to be honest I feel that way too."

"It's alright. We'll slow it down."

"I- what? We?" The thought is sickening, as if the Forsaken itself is protesting the idea and sinking its tendrils deeper into him in response.

Gerard shrugs. "You might have enough pull on Jon that he's willing to step back and let you do this because you ask. That's not going to fly with me."

"You- you said you'd leave me alone if I told you!" Martin says, frowning. 

"I said you'd find out, and you just did." The man gives him an absurdly irritating smirk.

Martin sputters angrily as his face grows hot with indignation. "Listen, I don't know how you got the idea that I want your help, but-" he stops abruptly, because Gerard before him might as well have been carved from marble, with how still and pale he's gone. His eyes are wide, his head tilted a little to the side, his only movement a sharp inhale of breath. "Uh... are you alright?"

"I hear him," Gerard says barely loud enough to hear.

Martin feels the blood leave his face as he pales to match the man. It's only been three days, it's- "are you sure?" 

"What are you doing?" Gerard is already busy unlocking the door. "Move!"

But he can't, can he? He... it's too risky. And the thought of- the others will be there. Melanie, Basira, Helen. Daisy, if Jon was lucky, all of them together cramped in the small storage room, with nowhere to hide from-

"No. That's not- it's not a great idea," Martin looks down at his hands; the tips of his fingers are starting to fade again. "Go." 

He doesn't look up at the angry scoff, or the door opening and closing violently, too focused on the news and the way they swirl and weigh in his chest. Jon's back, he's alive. Safe.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For one brief, _terrifying_ moment, Jon is afraid they won't be able to lift the lid of the coffin. It's heavier than any wood ought to be, and they're both weakened and shaky after months inside the damned thing. They're _so close_ , Jon thinks desperately, he can feel his rib out there, can feel the Archives calling him back, can feel Gerry out there, getting closer every second, and he pushes with a might that's not entirely his own, until the lid gives.

What hits him first is the light, and he's blinded as his pupils try to contract as fast as they can in response. Jon flinches against Daisy as there's a clattering of plastic all around them, and that's when he registers the sound of his own voice, statement after statement overlapping as each tape recorder runs at its own time. 

"We're out-" Daisy mutters by his side, one hand white knuckled around Jon's dirty shirt and the other around the coffin's edge. "We're alive, we- I can't believe- what's all this?" She frowns, looking all around them at the recorders that seem to pick up in volume when they're noticed. The two of them climb out clumsily, unaccustomed to having this much space, and collapse in a tangle of limbs and leftover dirt. Behind them, the lid slams shut again, and the chains fasten themselves around the coffin. The Buried won't hunt in the same place twice, not now that two victims have crawled their way out. 

"I, the- tapes? Must be dozens of-" Jon flinches again, and Daisy wraps an arm around his shoulders to draw him against her chest, when the door flies open.

"Jon you _stupid_ -" Basira starts, and Jon can see the exact moment she notices Daisy. Her dark skin goes ashen, and her mouth falls slack. "Oh my god."

Jon is yanked forward roughly, when Basira launches forward to pull Daisy into a hug. He manages to wedge his hands in before he slams face first on the floor, but pushing himself back up is honestly a lot more effort than what he has to spare right now, so instead he allows himself to slide down until he's lying on his side. It's a good place to rest, at least, surrounded by his tapes like a bunch of lazy cats. 

Basira's squeezing Daisy against her chest like she wants to meld with her, only breaking far enough to lay a long kiss on Daisy's forehead. Jon has the thought that they've both forgotten he's here, because he's fairly sure at least one of them is crying. 

He did this, he thinks with a start. He got them back together, he really did save Daisy. The feeling of accomplishment, of _hope_ that maybe he's not meant to just destroy, is almost enough to soothe the ache of loneliness as he lays there, waiting to get enough strength back to walk out and leave Daisy and Basira to their reunion. 

"Fuck- Jesus, _Jon_." Gerry's voice is surprisingly gentle by his side, and Jon has a second to wonder how on Earth he didn't notice the man trampling towards him, before he's being positively _enveloped_ , a broad, warm chest at his back and strong arms keeping him upright. It's- Jon doesn't even _remember_ the last time he was hugged like this, because it feels different from Daisy's grip, and it's _definitely_ different from what he imagined in the coffin; the scent of lavenders has faded almost completely, replaced by an acrid, metallic smell. 

"Not quite," Jon mutters, his throat tight. "But I'm getting fairly good at resurrections myself."

"You're crazy," Gerry says against Jon's hair, an almost breathless snort of laughter as he gathers Jon a bit tighter in his arms before climbing to his feet as though Jon weighs _nothing_. "Let's get you out of here."

They don't go back to the flat of course. Jon knows he could take the trip, but he's very aware that nothing will restore him quite like being at the Archives. So they end up at the storage room with the cot behind Jon's office, where Martin used to live and where Gerry first woke up, with its patched up wall and its door that won't keep anything out but that still provides a little bit of privacy at least. Gerry drops him carefully on the cot, and Jon finally gets a chance to get a good look at him.

"You're- what happened to your face?" Jon asks immediately, because Gerry looks _terrible_. His skin is grey and dry, and there are dark bags under his eyes, one of which sports a nasty purple bruise; there's a large gash on his forehead, his upper lip is split at the corner, and Jon finally recognizes the smell from before as ink, as he sees it bleeding out from Gerry's injuries. He reaches to touch at the wound on his lip with a shaky hand, but Gerry -whose face is starting to look more and more tired with every minute that goes by- grips it in his. "Was it-"

"Just a fall. From when you went in." Gerry lets out a long exhale, shaking his head. "Jon, what the hell?"

Oh dear. Jon sighs, steeling himself for a round. "Listen, I- Daisy was alive. I had to-"

"I don't _care_." Gerry leans forward, squeezing harshly at Jon's hand. "I don't- you're out now. You made it. That doesn't matter anymore-"

"Then why are you so angry?" Jon cuts in, frowning. He just saved Daisy's life, he's not about to apologize for the first good thing he's done since-

"Because you lied to me!" Gerry snaps. "You _promised_ you wouldn't do this, but you already knew you would, didn't you? All you needed was some information, aren't you just _lucky_ I was there to provide?"

Jon feels all the fight drain out of him as he catches the implication in Gerry's words. 

"No," he shakes his head, softly at first, growing more adamant by the second. "No that's not- that was never my intention. I didn't mean to use you, I-" his words grow fainter and fainter, until his voice extinguishes altogether. How is he any different from the hunters? "Gerry I'm-"

"This is your one free pass, Jon." Gerry's hand squeezes at his again, almost too tight, as much of a warning as the serious, hurt look in his eyes. "Don't- you don't get to lie to me again. I'm done with that. I can- I will forgive your lack of self-preservation, I don't even-" he jerks his head to the side, breathing heavily and pursing his lips into a tight line. 

Good. Great, yet another person Jon never wanted to hurt, broken.

After a moment that stretches for so long it becomes clear that the man before him won't speak another word, Jon shifts his hand a little to squeeze back. "...Gerry?"

And Gerry seems to deflate, a tired exhale leaving his parted lips as he looks at Jon just out the corner of his eyes. "Please don't be like her."

Jon doesn't need to ask who he's talking about, because he Knows, suddenly and painfully, with the unshakeable certainty of the Eye. Jon is- he knows Gertrude Robinson was a hero, the Archivist he'll never be. Stopping rituals, killing avatars, so dangerous Elias himself had to put her down. He also knows it doesn't mean she was a good person. Now he knows more than ever, here in the face of Gerry's broken trust, that he does not want to follow in her footsteps. 

"I won't." He says, as firmly as he can when his mouth still tastes like dirt and fear. "I- Gerry, I'm sorry. I know it doesn't, uh, magically fix anything, that would be a much gentler power to have just-" he stops and clears his throat, when Gerry's sad eyes take on a hue of amusement at his rambling, feeling his face grow hot under the scrutiny. "I will not lie to you again. Ever. I'm... I've been told I'm quite bad at it anyways." 

Gerry's eyes crinkle at the corners, and Jon is the one to avert his gaze now. "Terrible. I forgot you could have accomplices, though. Melanie's just as hopeless as you, but enlisting the Distortion was a good move on her part."

"Yes, uh, I can imagine Helen must be a very... accomplished liar." Jon takes a deep breath to try and get his heartbeat under control. He only succeeds in coughing out a small cloud of dust.

"Ah, shit." Gerry shifts by his side, beginning to climb to his feet. "Let me get you a statement, I'll be right-"

"N- don't," Jon asks. He tightens his grip on Gerry's hand, and while it's not enough to pull him back down, it does get him to stop moving. "Don't leave." The thought of being alone in this small, closed room sends a pang of panic through his stomach, and he can almost see the walls closing in on him. Here they're safe, as long as they're together. 

"Jon-"

"I'll just- I can take a nap. I'll be better in the morning." Of course he will, feeding on the trauma of those who have confided in him, but the alternative is the corridor that feels impossibly long, and selfish as it is Jon can't bring himself to choose to let Gerry go. It's a step away from begging, and Gerry seems to hear it, because he sits back down. His eyes are heavy on Jon, loaded with an emotion he can't identify. "Sorry, it's just-"

"It's alright. I know- you just came back from the Buried, Jon. It's alright to ask for things," Gerry says, and Jon thinks fleetingly that it would be a lot easier if he actually _knew_ what he wants. The ink on his face is dry by now, their conversation enough to at least make his wounds stop bleeding. "I could use a nap, too. Mind if I turn off the lights?"

"...I would rather you didn't."

"Fair." Silence. An arm draping around Jon's shoulders to bring him into another hug, and Jon melts into it, embarrassingly enough. It's been too long, and Gerry... Gerry feels like home. "I still can't believe you came back."

Jon wants to apologize again. For taking too long to come back, for going in the first place, for lying. For how much comfort he finds in Gerry's touch. For not being enough, when he and Martin and _everyone_ around him deserve so much better than a man that can't help a person without hurting another. 

Exhaustion crashes down on Jon, digging bone deep into him until he can't fight his eyes closing. Tonight he will feast on dreams. Tomorrow, he will be better.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all!
> 
> I'm letting you all know that I will be changing Illicio's posting schedule from weekly to once every two weeks. I'm really sorry about this, but I don't want to burn out trying to keep up with my current pace.
> 
> Thank you all for your kudos and comments, they really keep me going!

**IX**

On the days after the Buried, Daisy gets to know the world again. Or more accurately, the Institute, and the people in it. The difference is mind-blowing, now that the Hunt is only a background presence in her mind instead of the driving force behind her thoughts.

"You look... better," she tells Melanie one evening. It's not really a visible change, but she remembers Melanie from before the Unknowing, always bristling with a rage so barely restrained it used to set Daisy on edge too. Back then her thoughts had been mostly focused on how to take Melanie down if it came to a fight, and she has the feeling the same can be said of Melanie. Just two rabid dogs sizing the other up and waiting for the tension to crack.

"I guess I am," Melanie frowns down at the computer screen, and when Daisy leans over she can see she's taking a quiz of some sort. Probably not the approved use of Institute equipment, but she doesn't seem to care. "Did Jon tell you about the bullet?"

"He mentioned it," Daisy shrugs. A lot of things were said in the depths of the coffin, trying to bring the other some measure of comfort. 

"Gerry says they got it off me just in time. Apparently I was a bad accident away from becoming a full avatar." Melanie gives her a careful look out the corner of her eye. "I'm guessing that's why you look..."

"Like shit?" Daisy asks with a dry smile, and after a moment Melanie smiles back.

"I was trying to look for a better term."

"Sugar-coating doesn't suit you."

"Can't say I have much practice." Melanie goes back to her quiz, and Daisy goes back to thinking.

Her condition is hardly surprising, considering everything; the Hunt has been pulling at her from the moment she climbed out the coffin after Jon, but she's done her best to ignore the call of the blood. Daisy's very aware that this is abstinence without recovery, and that her reticence to join in with the Hunt's other hounds is her choosing a slow but certain death.

But she's herself again, and finding out who that is feels like a goal worth dying for.

"Why are you an onion?" Daisy frowns at the computer screen showing the results of Melanie's quiz.

"I was always going to be an onion," Melanie shrugs, "I just wanted to know what kind."

Daisy's thinking about the right way to answer to that statement, when Melanie's phone pings in her pocket. She watches her pull it out, and her face softens at whatever it is she just received. 

"I have to go. You should- I think he's recording, but you can probably go in if you're quiet." Melanie points at Jon's door. Even the way she refers to him is different, vaguely distasteful apathy instead of the tense hostility Daisy remembers from before the Unknowing, which is a relief. 

The irony of the situation doesn't escape Daisy, how she walked into the coffin with half a mind to kill Jonathan Sims, and walked out ready to kill _for_ Jonathan Sims.

"I can be alone for a while. It's alright." The call of the blood is easier to ignore when she's in someone else's company, but Daisy's not- she's noticed how Basira looks at her, the tired tension of her lips when Daisy follows her around the Institute and she has to pretend it doesn't bother her. Daisy's broken, but she will not be a burden. Not to anyone, but most of all not to Basira.

"Okay, then. Want anything from outside?" Melanie asks as she shoves an arm through her jacket's sleeve.

"I- some chips, if you could get them. Or any food that doesn't come packaged, really."

Melanie briefly nods an acknowledgment as she leaves, and she closes the door behind her before Daisy can ask her to leave it open.

It's okay. It's just a room, just a door. There's plenty of space to breathe and to move. If she focuses, she can feel Jon's presence in his office; he's okay too. They're- they made it out. 

Daisy opens her eyes, unsure when she closed them, and finds that the walls have started closing in. She tries to ignore them by clicking back on Melanie's onion quiz, surely that will distract her right? The room is unchanged, she's- it's safe out here, safer than outside for sure, where she'd no doubt find a trail and be compelled to chase it, to run until her legs hurt and she can smell the panicked exhaustion her victim's perspiration, until they cannot keep from her any longer and she's forced to claim the prize and move on to the next-

"You alright there?" When the man's voice pulls her away from her mind, Daisy realizes she's closed her eyes again. Her fists are clenched tightly on the desk, and when she forces them open she finds a matching set of angry red crescent moons on her palms. "You're growling."

She looks up; the man is standing before the desk, looking warily down at her and he smells of lavender and Jon, which helps her push away the last traces of the blood. 

"I'm okay." She mumbles, taking a deep breath and forcing herself to release her hunch over the desk, leaning back against her chair. She's heard a lot about this man lately; Basira calls him by his surname, like the ones she doesn't trust, but Melanie calls him Gerry with a sort of relaxed companionship, and when Jon does the same there's an undeniable undercurrent of fondness in the tone he gives the name. She has yet to meet him herself, but this seems as good a time as any, now that the room has stopped trying to suffocate her. "You're Gerry Keay?"

The man holds his silent contemplation for another minute, before he shrugs and grabs the chair across the desk. "That would be me. I've never seen an avatar of the Hunt look so famished," he observes. "Your kind doesn't usually deprive themselves."

"Well, I do," Daisy grumbles.

"Yeah. I can see that."

Silence. It's not exactly comfortable, but it's not _un_ comfortable either, and the company keeps both the Buried and the Hunt at bay.

"Are you here for Jon?" Daisy asks, and Gerry nods.

"Always. But right now I have to see Martin first."

That's... unexpected, to say the least. "Why do you have to see Martin?"

The man gives her an amused, resigned smile and a shrug. "Jon," he says like it's all the reason he needs, and Daisy decides on the spot that she likes Gerry Keay. 

"I guess that tracks," she nods. "Why don't you go then?"

"You looked like you needed someone to talk to for a bit."

"That helps." Daisy nods. While she would've sneered at it before, she's now terribly aware that kindness is a virtue sorely lacking in the world they move in. "I'm alright now."

"You sure?" Gerry's eyeing her strangely, and only then does Daisy remember he's aligned with the Beholding as well. 

"Yes. I'm- I'll just keep myself busy." Daisy looks at the computer. "I can... figure out what kind of onion I am."

The man blinks rapidly a couple times, probably trying to process what she just said, and Daisy wonders if Melanie felt the same perverse satisfaction when she said it.

"Sounds- yeah. I'll go now," Gerry says, climbing to his feet again. He turns at the door, and gives Daisy another evaluating look. "You're… very strong. Thank you. For helping him back." And he's gone before Daisy can ask what that even means. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You should be careful with that. Could be dangerous." Peter half-turns before he leaves, a hand on the edge of the ajar door and ice-cold eyes heavy on Martin's nape.

"Not any more dangerous than anything else in my life, really." Martin shrugs, eyes fixed on the bright computer screen. Interacting with Peter is only tolerable because it feels only marginally like talking to another human being, but even that is enough to upset his stomach. 

"Well, if you look at it like that. But I think you'll find that doing something dangerous out of your own free will is always better than being controlled to do it, even if that will is motivated by your frankly worrying infatuation with a man that does not care about you."

"Hm," is all Martin says. Out the corner of his eye he sees Peter's lips curl into a satisfied smile, but he can't bring himself to care. It's not like he's telling any lies either way.

"Okay! Now I really am running late, so if you don't mind?" Peter says in that cheerful, jovial tone Martin is quickly growing tired of, before he closes the office door behind him. 

Martin sighs. This is- it's been harder, lately. 

He still remembers why he's doing this, and he still cares, he really does. And everything is going according to plan, Peter really does think Martin believed his 'only you can save the world' spiel, Jon is out of the coffin, Daisy's alive, the Institute is -mostly- safe... but he just got the first actually feasible proof that the Extinction might be a real thing, and all he can think is that he's glad Peter left quickly.

The door flies open, and Martin jumps to his feet so abruptly that the chair he was sitting on tumbles to the floor.

"What- Gerard? What are you doing here?" Martin asks angrily, his heart beating madly in his throat. "Peter could've seen you!"

"I waited until he left, Martin, I'm not an idiot." The man rolls his eyes as he closes and locks the door behind him. Martin isn't sure it would be enough to stop Peter from coming in through the Lonely, but it's something.

"So what, were you eavesdropping?" Now that the shock is starting to pass, Martin is steadily moving towards annoyance in the spectrum of emotion. He _told_ Gerard he didn't want him messing with his business, and yet here he is, just-

"You still look a bit gray," Gerard comments, coming to sit across Martin's desk like they had a freaking appointment. "You know what he said was bullshit, don't you?"

"He said a lot of things," Martin mumbles as he picks his chair back up and sits under Gerard's heavy gaze. 

"There we go again." Gerard rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes are a beautiful color, Martin notices -if he still felt anything when writing his poetry, he'd be inclined to find a suitable comparison- and they couldn't be more different from Peter's. Gerard is actually looking _at_ him, instead of through him, like Peter does. "Are you always this stubborn?"

"Excuse me? I'm not- you're the one who broke in here!" Martin sputters indignantly. " _After_ I told you very clearly that I didn't want your help. If anyone is stubborn, that's-"

"The door was unlocked. Next time you want to be alone, check that first." Gerard shrugs, leaning backwards on his chair until the front legs lift off the floor. 

Martin rolls his eyes. "Would it have stopped you?"

"For about five minutes." The man gives him a smug smile that fits his face like a glove, a handsome, mischievous troublemaker that takes far too much pride on the admission. "You look better now."

Martin grumbles, shoving the tape towards him across the desk's polished surface. "Here. Dekker's statement."

"What did you make of it?" The chair's legs land heavily against the floor, and Gerard reaches to take the tape and shove it in his jacket's pocket.

"It's... very odd. It feels like the Spiral, the Lonely and the End all rolled into one, with a side of the Stranger to boot." Martin worries at his bottom lip, frowning. His thoughts as he puts them into words are slow like dripping treacle, like waking up on a cold morning, but he can feel with no room for uncertainty that they're _his_ thoughts, not the Lonely's. "I'm- I don't know if it _is_ a new power, but I- the fears don't usually interact like that, do they?"

"Not really. They're more likely to fight over territory than to share it." Gerard's face is thoughtful when Martin lifts his gaze to look for answers there. "Sometimes they get along if their domains overlap. I've seen the Forsaken mix with the Vast and the Buried, but never at the same time because those two are opposites. The more entities that try to get in the mix, the more likely it is to fail."

"Hm. So? New kid in town?"

"I'll have to listen to it. I'm not exactly thrilled by the idea, though." Gerard sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck in a slow, deliberate movement that belies his exhaustion. "But it's not out of the question."

"H-how's Jon?" Martin blurts out. Gerard's mouth twitches, and Martin clears his throat, looking pointedly away.

"He's... better. I don't think anyone's left the coffin before, so it's not like we have much to compare his progress to. Got a nice new mark out of it, of course. We're this close to completing the card."

"The what?"

"It's just something I- " Gerard blinks, a confused frown coming to rest at his face all of a sudden. "...Something I thought of."

"...Yes?" Martin arches an eyebrow, but Gerard's frown only grows more pronounced when he shuts his eyes tight, as if trying to focus on a though- "Oh. Oh, you're bleeding again!" 

Martin goes rustling frantically around in his desk, until he finds a box of paper tissues. The black ink dripping down steadily from Gerard's nose still hasn't slowed down by the time he looks back up, offering the box. 

"Her- grab one. Jesus, what happened?" 

"I-" Gerard opens his eyes again, and one of them has popped a blood vessel, it seems, the black startling against the white and blue as he reaches to pull a tissue free. "The Eye didn't like that too much."

"It didn't like _what_ specifically?"

Gerard gives him a dubious look. "I don't-"

"Oh, no. You _have_ to tell me now." Martin scowls as fiercely as he can, ignoring the heat on his face when Gerard raises an eyebrow.

"Excuse me? I _have_ to?"

"Of course you do! You can't just barge in here and- and expect me to give you all I know and then not tell me anything!"

"You continue to not be what I expected, Martin," Gerard says in a flat, annoyed tone. Good. "It's got something to do with the marks. He's- he has twelve of them already."

"That's- wow. That's a lot of them." Martin blinks. He's aware -oh, he is _so_ aware- of Jon's brushes with the entities, but it never occurred to him to actually sit down and figure which he hasn't encountered yet. It never felt important, for some reason. Peter's voice echoes in his mind. _You should be careful with that. Could be dangerous_.

"And he's getting them in the weirdest ways too, like-"

"Is there a normal way to be marked by a fear god?" Martin interrupts, only to be pinned down by Gerard's unimpressed stare. He snorts. "Sorry, sorry. You were saying?"

"Well, yes. I was there when he Knew about the bullet in Melanie's leg. It was a tidbit from the Eye. And then- why _did_ that Stranger bloke bring the coffin here?" Gerard frowns, and ink starts running down from his other nostril as well. "Ah, fuck."

"Yes, maybe- we should stop for now." Martin gives the box of tissues another push. "I really don't want to go looking for Jon because you bled out in my office."

"Would be hard to explain, huh?" Gerard tears a handful of tissues out, before climbing to his feet. "We'll listen to the tape. I'll-"

"Wait- we?"

"I'm not going to lie to him," Gerard shrugs. "Besides, it will make him... not happy, but at least he'll have news of you."

"Very considerate," Martin says dryly. It's an abrupt reminder that they might be doing this out of love for the same man, but they're not friends. Still, Jon deserves nice things, even if Martin can't be the one to give them to him. "What?" He asks, when he zones back in and finds Gerard still looking at him thoughtfully.

"He really does care. Lukas knows how to come at you; don't let him." Gerard opens the door, halfway out already before he pokes his head back in. "Don't call the Lonely back in yet, give yourself a break, will you?"

He's gone before Martin can answer, and he sighs. This is getting so much more difficult than he thought it would be.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"-statement ends." Jon clicks the recorder off and places it on his improvised desk, before turning to look at Daisy. "The Flesh continues to be... puzzling, to say the least."

"Nasty," Daisy agrees without looking away from her phone. The tape recorder slides a little on his stomach when she shifts to make her head more comfortable on Jon's thigh. "Are vampires from the Flesh?"

Jon leans back, resting his head against the wall as the Knowledge starts pressing against his mind. "Yes. Bit of the Hunt too. And a little Stranger. They're quite a mess." He shifts too, the hardwood floor of his office punishing on his tailbone. 

"Want to switch?" Daisy asks, already halfway through sitting up. 

"I'm alright." Jon slides down instead. "It's almost time to leave anyways, Gerry will be here soon."

"I met him the other day. He seems nice." Daisy lays back next to him. Jon slides his hand under her forearm, just to have an additional point of contact, and she tangles their fingers together. 

"He is," Jon says quietly. Daisy, who is not aligned with the Beholding but whose stare can still make you squirm, looks at him out the corner of her eye. 

"What's up with that?" She asks after so long has gone by that Jon is starting to think he's safe. He lets out an exhalation that hopefully doesn't sound as exhausted as he is with this whole matter.

Jon is, regardless of what Tim -or Georgie, or even Gerry himself- used to say, not completely hopeless at reading people. Only mostly. He's not entirely blind as to how the mood has shifted in his interactions with the man in question. 

Gerry has ways been generous with his touch, a heavy hand on Jon's shoulder, around his wrist, on top of his head, but recently there's been the slightest moment of hesitation just before making contact, and Jon finds himself dreading it every time, without really knowing what outcome he fears more. 

It definitely doesn't help that Jon is far too aware that no matter what Gerry may or may not feel, he did not choose to be here willingly, that even if he for some reason enjoys Jon's company, he's as much a prisoner to him as Jon himself is to the Eye.

"Nothing." Jon says, then adds sullenly. "I don't know."

Daisy squeezes his hand. "Martin?"

"I don't know." Jon turns his head away to avoid Daisy's gaze. "I- Daisy, I think there's bigger things to worry about."

"It's good to- I'm trying to think of the little things too." Daisy shrugs. "It feels like having a purpose."

Jon purses his lips. Sure, having a purpose is good and all until said purposes are self-sacrificing to a fear entity to keep you safe _or_ behaving in an entirely too confusing manner.

"How's Basira?" He hasn't spoken much to her since that day after the statement. Jon gets the feeling she doesn't want to give him another chance to voice those thoughts she doesn't pride herself on. 

Daisy sighs. "She's- it's okay. We're together, so it's fine. I just-" her voice falters a little, and Jon turns back to face her, squeezes her hand in reassurance. "I know I'm not what she needed."

Jon doesn't do her the disservice of trying to offer advice; the nuances of their relationship are something he doesn't want to intrude on. Instead, he tugs softly on her hand.

"I think we have time for an episode or two, if you're up for it."

Daisy's chapped lips twitch with humor. "I thought you didn't like it."

Jon snorts; no need for an Eye membership to see that, then. "It's- charmingly simple, I suppose."

"You don't get to back out," she says, lifting Jon's hand in hers to tap at her phone. 

"Fine. But I _will_ comment on it." Jon mock-scowls as the opening notes of The Archers' intro start playing.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Want some coffee?" Gerry asks as he locks the door to the flat behind him. 

"That sounds nice," Jon mutters. His voice is distracted and somewhat annoyed, and Gerry turns to see him struggling with the very last button of his coat. The burned hand must be aching more than usual, because he's not even trying to use it. "Uh- could you-"

"On it," Gerry nudges Jon's hand away gently, before easily sliding the button through the hole. "You're... good." Jon's large, dark eyes are glued to him when he looks up, awfully closer than he expected.

"Yes, I- thank you." After a moment's hesitation Jon's hands slide under his again to grab at the coat's lapels, and he steps away as he shrugs it off. 

Gerry sighs, taking his own jacket off. This tension is ridiculous, he thinks as he watches Jon make a beeline for his bedroom. It's not- Gerry's far too aware of the situation with Martin. The tape he's carried around in his jacket for the past two days can attest to that, so no, he's not planning on making a move on Jon without at least a conversation. But he can't- it's not like he can just pretend he doesn't want Jon. Not after the Buried, not after thinking he lost him, and all the revelations that stemmed from that.

And speaking of the tape...

He hasn't brought himself around to listening to it, the hard corners digging at his ribs where his heart should be. Gerry's not so blind as to not realize this is selfishness on his part, a futile attempt to keep up this false normalcy they have found for themselves.

It's not fair for Jon, after Gerry made him promise to not keep secrets, but most of all it's not fair to Martin, who Gerry has very much decided he misjudged.

"We should- there's something I have for us. That we should listen to," he says once he goes back to the living room. He hands Jon -who has already changed into night clothes and is balled up at one end of the sofa- the two steaming mugs. "Here. I'll be right back."

Jon's eyes narrow in suspicion when Gerry comes back with the tape recorder. "What is that?" Gerry sits next to him on the sofa, stalling for time. "Gerry..."

With the kind of relationship he has with Jon, there's probably not a good way or time of saying 'I really like the way you say my name', but considering the news he's about to give, Gerry's willing to bet this would be one of the worst. 

"I spoke to Martin." He says hurriedly, instead.

"You _what_?" Jon's eyes go wide, and Gerry lifts a hand in an appeasing motion.

"Yes, when- I went to look for him when you went into the Buried."

"I- why would you do that?!" Jon asks, his voice strained.

"Let me see, because I found out you'd _fatally_ misunderstood the concept of anchors, and I thought he might have a better chance at getting you back than a _rib_." Gerry finds himself growing more agitated as he speaks, the light compulsion bringing forth more than just words. "A rib. Jon what were you _think_ -"

"You said you'd _stop_ bringing that up," Jon cuts him sullenly, his brow furrowed as he straightens up to shove a finger into Gerry's chest. "You said a man used _quiche_ as his anchor!"

"It was _not_ about the quiche, I thought you'd understood that!" Gerry clamps a hand down on Jon's to yank it away from his torso as he leans forward. "How was I supposed to know- a _rib_!"

"Well-" Jon snaps angrily, inches from Gerry's face. "Next time-"

"Next- there is not going to be a next time, Jon! You're not going into _any_ more entities without me," Gerry blurts out. Jon's face goes carefully blank, and they stay there for a moment, breathing heavily in agitation. "Jon-"

"What- the tape." Jon sits back, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping an arm around them. "What's in it?"

Gerry groans, sitting back as well. Stupid. 

"It's... let's just listen to it," he says before pressing the play button.

" _Right. Martin Blackwood, archi- assistant to Peter Lukas, head of the Magnus Institute._ "

Jon grows more and more stiff with each passing second, and Gerry purses his lips in thought. This is probably the most Jon has heard of Martin in months, and the content could hardly be worse.

"Hey, I..." Gerry sighs. Jon doesn't look at him, and Gerry notices with a start that his eyes are starting to glow a faint green. More information to the Archive, then, whether Jon wants the knowledge or not.

He reaches over to lay a comforting arm across Jon's shoulders, pulling him lightly towards him, and Jon -surprisingly, terrifyingly- comes. It doesn't make Martin's words any less dreadful, but it does make it easier to listen to, knowing they're not alone.

"What- what happened after?" Jon asks after the tape clicks to an end. Gerry didn't miss how his posture against him grew stiff again at the subtle abuse Lukas flung to Martin after the statement. He'd known that was a possibility, but he'd also known Jon wouldn't let him stop the tape before it was over. 

"I waited until Lukas left, locked us into his office and pissed him off until he was more human." Gerry shrugs. "Then we talked."

"Please don't antagonize Martin," Jon mutters softly, running his pointer finger over the edge of the tape in a gesture that seems almost intimate, and that Gerry very much doubts is meant for the device.

"All interaction helps, when he's like this. Especially if it turns out he wants to engage back, and trust me, he _wanted_ to argue with me."

"That's because you are irritating," Jon huffs, and Gerry snorts a little.

"Beholding hasn't told you where it hid the return receipt?"

Jon's hand slaps softly against Gerry's chest. "What else?"

"Not much. After- I reminded him that you care about him. When he was more himself," Gerry adds, giving Jon's shoulders a light squeeze. "He even listened, I think." Jon frowns, quiet and contemplative for a moment that stretches for entirely too long. "Does it help? To know he's doing this for a reason?" Gerry asks

 _'Does it help to know you're loved?'_ he doesn't add.

Jon sighs. 

"Somewhat. I just- leaving my personal- what are we going to do about this?" Jon asks. "This new- we have our hands full with the regular ones already, but a new one?"

"Is the Eye telling you something about it?" Gerry watches his face carefully, but his eyes are already back to their usual, comforting dark hue, and Jon shakes his head.

"Suspiciously quiet, if you ask me." Jon looks up at him, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Does it ever tell you anything?"

Gerry thinks of the marks all over Jon's soul, and the screeching static that came from trying to Know about them. 

"Sometimes. I try to pay more attention to what it doesn't want to tell me."

"And what is that?"

"There's something about your marks," Gerry says slowly, trying to pinpoint the exact piece of information that the Watcher doesn't want him to focus on. "I think there's a reason you're getting- oh, there we go."

"Wh- Gerry!" Jon springs from the sofa, leaving Gerry's side uncomfortably empty as he darts into the bathroom. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back to keep the ink flowing from his nose from making a bigger mess. Done with Eye business for the night, it seems.

"It doesn't hurt," Gerry shrugs after Jon comes back with a handful of bunched up toilet paper. "You're a cheapskate, Martin had tissues."

"You're ridiculous," Jon huffs, pressing the paper carefully against Gerry's face. "Should I- I'll get something to read, that'll fix it. Hold this."

"Nah." Gerry makes no move to take over holding the toilet paper under his nose, cracking an eye open instead to find Jon hovering over him with concern clear on his face. "Just talk to me. I like it better."

"I-" Jon's cheeks go a few shades darker, and Gerry feels his mouth twitch into a smile. "Uh- alright. What- Gerry, I'm really bad at small talk."

"Then don't do small talk," Gerry shrugs. "Tell me... oh, tell me about when you broke into Getrude's flat."

"W- how did you know about _that_?!" Jon gapes, his face red with embarrassment. He could get used to this, Gerry thinks. 

"Had a lot to listen to when you went to pick up Daisy. Supplemental Jon sounds like a fun fella," Gerry adds with a wink, and Jon sputters like an angry kettle.

He could _definitely_ get used to this.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a content warning for the first section because Martin's Lonely thoughts are starting to feel a little like suicidal ideation, just in case.

**X**

Martin bundles himself a little tighter in his coat, as he waits for the kettle to boil. The worst thing about the Lonely is definitely the bone-deep chill that follows wherever you go, no matter how many layers you wear, or how high you crank up the heater. The cold is _inside_ you, and Martin is starting to run out of ways to chase it out.

The kitchenette attached to Peter's office is smaller than the one at the Archives' break room, but also much better equipped; it has a high end coffeemaker and all sorts of coffee and tea sorted in delicately crafted tins. Martin has the thought that he would've been excited to try them all before, but now he just cracks the tin open and pulls out a bag at random. This is just... something else he's supposed to do, like eating, like breathing. It doesn't matter that they don't bring any satisfaction, because nothing really does anymore, when he's like this.

He goes to pour the hot water into a single mug, and drops the bag inside, watching it sink and bob with a curious sense of detachment. It smells like nothing, and it tastes like nothing when he takes a sip. His hands barely even register the warmth of the cup, and Martin places it back at the countertop. He'd expected it would make him feel something, but there goes that hope.

The only spark of emotion comes when he finally listens to the prickle of unease in his chest, and goes to close the small room's exit where it connects with Peter's office. Standing alone behind two locked doors, he almost feels at ease. Nobody can find him here- or they wouldn't, if anyone was looking for him of course. Jon hasn't come to him since the last time they met before the coffin, and Gerard seems to have a supernatural sense to know when Martin just finished an Extinction statement to come pester it out of him. 

It's a bit pathetic, that Jon's- that Gerard is the only one who seeks him out, and even then it's only out of necessity. The Lonely likes it, and it likes even more that Martin doesn't feel any special way about it.

Outside, someone walks past the door to Peter's office, and Martin's stomach clenches. The room around him loses a little more color. Maybe… maybe he'll go home early today. Peter won't care; he would probably encourage it, now that Martin thinks about it. Just... it'll be easier there. More quiet. Calmer. 

Martin leans his head back, and the room around him begins to dissolve.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Gerry asks with a smile, and Melanie nods, entranced.

"We should find another," she declares. The Flesh book -aptly titled just 'Guts'- burns nicely in a metallic garbage bin between the two of them. 

"I knew there was a reason I liked you." Gerry snorts. "I've been hearing some rumours about the Desolation. Some weird fires around the city; might be worth taking a look at."

Melanie squirts some more lighter fluid onto the book, delighting when the fire roars and flares up.

"How is it different?" she asks, the question popping suddenly into her mind.

"Sorry?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.

"I know the Desolation is destruction, and Slaughter is violence." It's odd, to talk so freely about the entity that would've claimed her soul; like mentioning someone you knew in passing, one of those who were impossibly important once, but now are just a memory you're not sure how you feel about. "But I wanted to destroy too, when I was- you know."

"I know." Gerry lets out a careful huff, running a hand through his hair. "They tend to bleed into each other, some more than others. Some care about the end result only, like the Desolation, some care about the process, like the Slaughter or the Hunt. Smirke had a good idea with the list, but sometimes I think he oversimplified."

"So what's your take on it?"

"Colors," Gerry shrugs, then adds with a small smile, "if colors hated you."

Melanie has no idea what that's supposed to mean, but his tone makes it fairly clear that it's got something to do with Jon, and she rolls her eyes. Ridiculous, but apparently something she'll have to get used to, considering the sneak peeks she's gotten through the Institute's windows in the past week.

"How's Georgie?" Gerry asks after a moment, once the flames have started dying down. "You've been going out more lately, right?"

"Yes. I'm-" Melanie feels her body tense, and takes a deep breath, until it relaxes again. This- she can tell Gerry this. It's not a big deal. They're- they might be friends, now. "She takes me to therapy. I've been feeling- I added an extra day. I feel like it's working."

Gerry gives her a quick look and a quicker smile, before focusing on the remnants of the burning book again. "That's good. I tried therapy once, but it turns out there is just no way to work 'my mother accidentally framed me for her gruesome murder and then came back to life and continued to stalk me until I handed her over to an old woman to be destroyed' into a credible lie. Not that you would know the difference, of course," he adds with a wink over his shoulder.

"I'll have you know my therapist doesn't suspect a thing, so I'm clearly not as bad of a liar as you think." Melanie rolls her eyes, smiling. There's a certain giddiness to her chest, a kind of light-heartedness she'd almost forgotten. 

"Mmmm nah, you're very bad." Gerry reaches a hand towards her, and she passes him the bottle of lighter fluid. He squirts the rest of it in the trash can, unflinching when the flames roar up again, before he turns back to look at Melanie. "But I'm glad it's helping. I'm guessing the after-session dates with your girlfriend are nothing to scoff at either, are they?"

"They help," Melanie's smile turns a little smug. It may be sappy, but she's allowed a bit of happiness, thank you very much. 

"I can imagine," Gerry rests his closed fist against her shoulder and gives her a little shove. Melanie kicks at his boot, rolling her eyes. 

This is... comfortable. Life is far from perfect, and the number of things that make Melanie happy are still in the single digits but this- this might be one of them.

"Actually, I wanted to ask you something..." Melanie starts after the fire has died down again and the relaxed silence has stretched for a few minutes, making her voice as casual as possible. "Remember when you told us that you fed on Jon's voice? Recharging a battery, kind of?"

"I... do?" Gerry looks down at her with an arched eyebrow. 

"Okay. And remember that other time you told me there was nothing going on with Jon, but you let me believe that so I didn't find out you were leeching on him to survive?" 

"Ah." Gerry averts his eyes, and the line of his shoulders stiffens. Melanie frowns, puzzled; it's been a while since she's had any friends to joke with, but this is most definitely not the mood she was trying to set up. "I didn't want any trouble, Melanie. You and Basira were very on board with killing me that first day because you thought I wasn't human, and I was just- well, I knew if you got actual confirmation of that, then-"

"Oh- oh no, that's not what I'm talking about," Melanie shakes her head, rolling her eyes. "I get why you did that. You were right, too, I would've killed you," she shrugs.

Gerry turns to look at her again, amused and confused in equal measure. "Okay? So what's this about then?"

"I just wanted to ask," Melanie struggles a little to keep her face blank now that she's put them back on track. "Do you also feed on holding hands with Jon, or is that just so he doesn't get lost into another entity when you're on your way from the bus stop?"

Gerry freezes when her words register in his mind, his face a carefully blank mask whose only emotion lies in the slight panic brewing behind his eyes.

"I-"

"Yes?" Melanie lifts her eyebrows, nodding along with pursed lips. The flush starting to darken his cheekbones is fascinating to watch, a much deeper hue than would correspond to his skin tone, probably on account of the ink that runs through his veins.

"Have you been- listen, we have- the fires." Gerry turns abruptly to start walking away from the smoldering can, and Melanie smirks. "We should look into it, could be a new avatar."

"Mhm. Alright. Just a little question I had, don't let it keep you up at night." Melanie follows, not even angry that she has to trot to keep up with him.

"I won't."

"Good, good."

\----------------------------------------------------------------

"You're far too early. Nothing to find today?" Jon looks up when the door to his office is pushed open, a smile already on his lips. Gerry shrugs, taking his jacket off. Jon's gaze trails over the burn-smooth skin of Gerry's arms, the tattooed eyes at his elbows seeming to almost look at him when Gerry's muscles contract and stretch as he moves to hang the jacket by Jon's coat.

"Hello there?" Gerry asks, and Jon's eyes snap up his face. He's got an amused smile and a raised eyebrow, and Jon whips his burning face back down to his statement. "Melanie's busy today, so I did some recon by myself, but there's nothing tangible asides from Rayner's freaks."

"This is- yes, alright." He's not terribly worried about the Church of the Divine Host, he thinks, his fist clenching tightly around the pen he's using to make annotations on the statement; they cannot come into his Archives, because they won't risk being Seen. It still irks him that they _dare_ come this close to the Institute, like a taunt to- 

"What are you working on?" Gerry's long, black hair curtains down by the side of Jon's face, and all thoughts of Seeing the Darkness into oblivion evaporate from his mind.

"I just- I'm going over old statements," Jon clears his throat. "I'm trying to find anything that feels like the Extinction."

"I see... Found anything yet?" Gerry leans closer to look at the paper on the desk, and Jon freezes at the warmth at his back. 

"I don't-" this is where Jon admits he hasn't been able to focus for the past three hours, isn't it? "Martin left early yesterday. And he didn't come to work today."

"Ah," Gerry sighs, before retreating to go sit across the desk. His eyes are soft and sympathetic, because it's just Jon's luck to be surrounded by good, caring people that he doesn't deserve. "How did you-"

"I just Knew it. I think- I think it was too much today." Jon averts his gaze again; Gerry's gentle concern is too much to deal with, what with everything that's been tumbling around in his head. "Which is why I'm looking into this, but the Watcher doesn't seem to be too interested in the new competitor." Jon scowls down at his desk. No helpful tidbits from the Eye either when picking out statements to revisit, or when going over things he already knew.

"Hey." Gerry slides a warm, heavy hand on top of Jon's, and Jon, because he's a selfish coward, doesn't move away. "You're doing what you can. We all are, Martin too."

Jon nods slowly, after a moment. Martin is- Martin knows what he's doing. He's far from stupid or weak, Jon knows that now. Even though he's still human, Martin moves through this world of fears with a sense of cunning and determination that Jon couldn't even begin to emulate, despite being a key player himself. 

"I must admit, I... it's nice that you have changed your mind about him." Gerry hasn't told him what brought on the change, but Jon finds that he doesn't care. It's just one less thing to be worried about.

Gerry shrugs, giving his hand a squeeze. "Turns out we have a few things in common." 

"You do." Jon nods; that much has been clear to him for a while. A fatal flaw that bears his name and his face.

Gerry's gaze is heavy on him, far from the usual playfulness in their interactions, and Jon feels his heartbeat start racing. 

"Jon, we-"

"Jon?" the door opens again, and Daisy pokes her head through. "Oh. Sorry."

"No, it's- do you need anything, Daisy?" Jon asks, extricating his hand from Gerry's in the softest movement he can manage.

"I can come back later," Daisy shrugs.

"Actually, let's trade." Gerry pushes off his chair, and onto his feet. "You stay here. I'll see you when it's time to go home." He doesn't seek Jon's eyes when he says this, moving instead to grab his jacket and shove his arms through the sleeves.

"Careful," Jon mutters quietly. 

Gerry stops at the door, his shoulders dropping in what might be a sigh, and he turns to look at him over his shoulder, his eyes softening just the slightest amount. "...Yeah. Yeah, you too."

And he's gone.

Daisy comes in once the sound of Gerry's boots stomping against the Institute's polished floors fades from earshot. "That was very dramatic." 

Jon crosses his arms over his chest. "No, it wasn't."

Daisy rolls her eyes. "You're making this too big of a deal, just like the monster thing."

"I- _excuse me_?" Jon's face goes slack in disbelief, but Daisy merely leans a hip against his desk, looking down at him with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Poor, _poor_ Jon, with these two men who lo-"

"Daisy! We don't- there's no-" Jon sputters, as it becomes increasingly clear he doesn't have anything to say, and just wanted to stop her from finishing the thought. "What did you need?"

Daisy shrugs. "Basira went to see Elias, and Melanie's out too."

"I see..." Jon sighs; the only reasons he's able to brave being alone are both the fact that recording statements keeps the walls from closing in, and the terrifying knowledge that Gerry _would_ stay in the office just to keep him company if he asked. "Well I- it's good that you came. I need your opinion on something." 

As soon as it becomes clear that she's wanted here, Daisy's entire body relaxes; Jon smiles to himself as she goes to take the seat Gerry left. Daisy deserves some kindness, she's just... another victim. He's the only one who chose this. 

"Sure, what is it?"

"Did yo- have you seen Martin lately?" Jon reaches into a desk drawer for a tape recorder that wasn't there a minute ago. This one, he Knows, will contain Martin's recording on the Extinction.

"Not really. Where is he?" Daisy frowns.

Jon's eyes fall to the recorder in his hand. He doesn't know if he feels guiltier for Knowing about Martin, or for not going to him after what he found out.

"Taking a break from all of this, hopefully."

\----------------------------------------------------------------

"-tin Blackwood? Yes, he lives here. We haven't seen him in a few weeks, though." The woman's eyes narrow in suspicion. "Did he die?"

Gerry snorts. God forbid landlords have any tact. He thinks back at one of the many things he learned about Martin while trying to Know the address to his flat. 

"No, he's fine. But he had to go out of town for a while, because his mother passed away." He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to look solemn. "I'm going to go stay with him for a few days, but he wanted me to pick up his phone and some other things for him."

"I see... and who are you again?" The woman asks; the mistrust is a fair response, honestly, considering what Gerry's here to do. 

"Well, you know..." he gives her a little smile and a non-committal gesture, pointing at himself and an imaginary Martin by his side. Whatever, it worked with Melanie and Basira, it'll fool a random landlady. 

"Ah. Huh." The woman runs her eyes over him, evaluating him under the light of the new revelation; Gerry probably -hopefully- doesn't look anything like a self deprecating mop that specializes in giving off mixed signals and avoiding necessary conversations, but this woman clearly doesn't know Martin enough to know his tastes, because she just shrugs. "Then don't you have a key already?"

"Oh yes, I have one,' Gerry hurries to say. "He just wanted me to tell you that he's, you know, coming back and-" and here he crosses a leg over the other, bringing a knee up against the desk with enough force that the landlady's mug topples over the edge and spills its contents on her lap. "Oh shit, I'm sorry! Did you-"

"I'm alright," the woman says through gritted teeth, her skirt dripping lukewarm coffee on the carpeted floor when she climbs to her feet.

"I'm really sorry," Gerry apologizes again, but the woman is already heading towards the door without sparing him a glance. Good.

He Knows she keeps the spare keys in the bottom left drawer of the desk, and it only takes him a couple seconds lto find the one labeled with the number to Martin's flat, before unhooking it from the ring and pushing the drawer closed again. 

By the time the woman comes back, patting at her damp lap with a towel, Gerry's already sitting back on his chair, sporting his best apprehensive look. "Did you need anything else?" she snaps.

"No, I'm just-"

"Sorry, yes. Thank you, could you leave?" the landlady's lips are pursed into a tense line. "I need to change."

"Yes! Sorry, I'll just-" he hops to his feet, crossing the office hurriedly. "Sorry!" Gerry apologises again before she closes the office door in his face, and he smiles. That's one less thing to worry about.

Martin's door opens easily enough with the key, and fog spills out like some sort of cheap haunted house trick. Not great, Gerry decides. The interior is freezing cold, and he bundles a bit tighter in his jacket, before closing the door behind him. There's a picture of a woman on a small table by the door, right behind the key bowl, and Gerry remembers the tape he listened to, with Elias' cruel, mocking voice and Martin's pained, choked back sobs.

It's a little selfish, but it's nice to know that Gerry's not the only one who can't bring himself to get rid of the memory of a mother who never loved him. 

"Martin?" he calls out, bundling himself tighter in his clothes. "Are you-"

"What are you doing in my flat?!" Martin says by his side, where Gerry's pretty sure he _wasn't_ a second ago. "How did you get in here?"

"It was open," Gerry shrugs. Martin looks... gray. His eyes, his hair, even his skin seems desaturated, blending in against the muted hues of his lightless flat. 

"No it _wasn't_." Martin says firmly, and a bit of green starts seeping back into his eyes. Gerry lets out a relieved exhale. He's not too far gone, yet. "In fact, I made sure it _was_ locked, because I've been being _stalked_ lately."

"That sounds terrible," Gerry says, and because it seems like Martin is gaining more and more color the more exasperated he grows, he walks past him into what turns out to be the kitchen. "Want me to beat them up for you? I'll do it, just point me at 'em. Do you have coffee here? I'm not much for tea."

"I don't- why are you here?!" Martin sputters angrily, closing the cupboard doors Gerry purposefully leaves open as he moves down the room. "I'm not exactly going to record Extinction statements at home!"

"Well, I'm not here for that." Gerry gives him another look. He looks mostly solid now, enough that it might be a good time to let him know. "Jon was worried about you, so I came to check how you were."

"...Oh." Martin's flustered face goes slack at the news, and Gerry snorts. These two are the freaking same. "I- does he know?"

"That you're trying to save the world?" Gerry arches an eyebrow. "Or that you're doing it for him?" that has Martin's face regaining the color it was lacking. 

"Both, I guess," Martin mutters, bringing a hand to rub at his arm nervously. "...I think I do have coffee, but it's- I don't drink it, I just had it for when Sasha- for when friends came over. I don't know if it's any good."

"I've probably had worse." Gerry knows what it's like to be alone. He's been that way for most of his life, but it's... he chose to live like that, it was never a burden for him. Here, as Martin talks of friends ripped from him by a world that feeds on despair, he feels a pang of sadness for this man who clearly didn't. "I have an hour before I have to go get Jon."

"Alright," Martin lets out a noise between a sigh and a groa, before he finally moves towards the cupboards again, and starts pulling out mugs and tins and spoons. "But you have to tell me how you got in."

"I'll let you guess," Gerry smirks as he sits at the breakfast table.

"How is he?" comes Martin's voice amidst the clinking of metal and porcelain. There's a careful quality to it, like he thinks he's not allowed to ask, and Gerry sighs.

"He's alright. _Very_ defensive when we talk about his rib-related choices."

The sound of a mug dropped on the countertop, and Martin spins around. "Excuse me, his _what_?"

Gerry arches an eyebrow. "I hadn't told you? Could've sworn I mentioned it when we spoke about the marks." He wipes a hand under his nose, but it comes away ink-free. Edging around the topic is okay then, good to know. 

"I don't- you didn't mention any _ribs_ ," Martin's voice is this close to a groan, Gerry notes with a smile. "What did he do now?"

"You better finish making that tea, you're going to need it."

\----------------------------------------------------------------

The door to the cell slams shut, and Elias rolls his eyes. Frankly... he'd known Peter wasn't in the best of moods, but this is childish. 

"I'm afraid you're going to have to either calm down or leave."

"How are you doing it?" Peter lands heavily on the chair across the table, blue eyes stormy with badly concealed rage and a muscle twitching on his jaw. Elias tries, he really does, but he can't hold back a snort. "Elias!"

"I'm sorry, sorry," Elias chuckles. "It's just amusing, really, that you seem to think I have the power to stop your _puppeteering_ from in here. You mistake me for the Web's own, Peter."

He gives him the smile he knows Peter _despises_ , just the slightest curve to his lips, and a single arched eyebrow.

"Don't play coy with me, Elias. Martin was progressing _incredibly_ well, and all of a sudden he's stuck? Don't pretend you had nothing to do with it."

"Oh, but I didn't!" Elias reaches over to pull out the scotch bottle and the two tumblers, and Peter's hand closes around his wrist with bruising strength. "I'm afraid I did warn you the Watcher wouldn't let its own go so easily."

"How?" Peter's eyes narrow as his grip tightens even more. "I will not ask again, Elias."

Elias laughs, amused. Peter is awfully easy to rile up- if you know how to play him, and Elias has had decades to learn. 

"Tell me something Peter... what do you know of Gertrude's last ill-fated assistant?"

\----------------------------------------------------------------

There's a person standing across the street from the Institute. They're wearing dark clothes, and over their chest rests a pendant fashioned to look like a closed eye. It's a ridiculous notion, to come to the tower of the Ceaseless Watcher, and believe their god will protect them here.

Jon comes to a stop before the Institute's doors, the taste of Markus Burnett's encounter with the End still fresh in his mind, and considers crossing the street towards them. It would certainly send a message to the rest of-

"Jon?" the voice is puzzled and soft, and it feels like a curtain is lifted from Jon's mind, as he sees the person scurry away; he turns to find Martin looking down at him in concern. "Are you alright? Oh- your... your eyes."

"Ah- yes I just- it's-" Jon gestures vaguely towards the spot where his would-be victim was just standing.

"Oh. That's- that's not good, is it?" Martin frowns. "It's probably good you didn't-"

"I wasn't going to. Or- I hope I wasn't," Jon scowls as well. He definitely _wanted_ to. He can still feel Martin's eyes on him, but for all that he's fantasized about this encounter, he can't think of anything to say. "You look better."

"I guess." Martin's frown melts into a mask of dry resignation. "Gerard broke into my flat two days ago. He won't tell me how he did it."

Of course, the Eye chooses that moment to let him Know exactly _how_ Gerry got a key to Martin's flat, and Jon feels his face grow warm. It's a bit of a whiplash mood, to go from preparing to Behold a person to thinking about- yes, okay.

"I- yes. He does that," Jon clears his throat, "keep him away from your sofa."

"I'll keep that in mind. Just-" Martin gives a nervous look around, and Jon frowns.

"He's not around." Jon says, the static rising in his ears as he Sees both what Martin wants, and the answer to it. It still feels odd to use his powers willingly, but he'll do it for Martin anytime. "He's on his way back from meeting Elias."

"Oh- okay?" Martin blinks. "Thanks. I- he can't do that, Jon."

"Peter-?"

"Gerard." Martin's face grows pained, serious. "Peter is- he's happy I'm going along with his plan. If Gerard keeps trying to meddle in... I made a deal, and I _have_ to keep it. Please tell him to leave me alone."

"Martin, you don't have to-"

"But I am," Martin sighs. "You said you'd respect that."

And he does, he _really_ does respect the sacrifice Martin is making, but- but watching him hurt himself is just too much. This is the first time Martin has looked like himself in _months_ , and Jon is suddenly confronted with just how much he's missed him.

"I'll talk to him." Jon says, before anything else can get out. "I'm- I'm sorry, Martin."

Martin nods wordlessly, before turning back to walk into the Institute. Jon watches him go, a million things he should've said running across his mind now that they're utterly, completely useless. 

I dreamt of you in the Buried. Thank you for the tapes. You don't have to be strong all the time, please let me help you. I miss you so much it _scares_ me, but it's a kind of fear I _want_ to feel, the kind of fear I'd dedicate my life to.

None of it matters, because by the time Jon walks in after him, all that's left of Martin are a couple wisps of fog.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

"What part of 'don't antagonize Martin' translated into 'go and lie to his landlady to break into his house' to you?" Jon asks that evening. The bus is nearly empty, and Gerry's arm is a comforting weight across his shoulders, a nice contrast against the hard plastic seat.

"I _knew_ he'd tattle," Gerry rolls his eyes. "Go figure, pull a guy out of the Lonely with a nice cup of tea and some good conversation, and the first thing he does is go tell on you with his crush. You didn't tell him I had the key, did you? I don't want him to change the locks."

"I did not." Jon rolls his eyes. "But you can't- Gerry, I promised I'd leave him alone."

"And you did. Very respectful of his boundaries."

"And you should do so too. We're- we agreed we'd investigate about the Extinction so he didn't have to do everything on his own, not that we'd intrude on his plan."

"It's not a great plan, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask." Jon slaps lightly at Gerry's thigh with the back of his hand. "Listen, I trust Martin-"

"And I trust him too, sure. But I'm not going to- I can't just leave it alone, Jon." Gerry turns to look at him, and Jon -as he often does- finds himself distracted by the lights of the street outside gleaming off the metallic rings and beads on his face. "I'm not going to let them win. Not if I can help it, especially with someone they seem as hell-bent on getting as Martin."

Jon sighs. Of course he won't; Gerry's far too stubborn, far too-

"Just- Martin knows what he's doing."

"And I know what I'm doing too." Gerry shrugs, his shoulders set and his brow furrowed. "I'm not- I can't exactly _stop_ him from aligning with the Lonely if that's what he wants. I'm just slowing it down. Getting us more time."

"And what happens when Peter Lukas finds out you're breaking into his flat to sit him down for tea?" 

"Well, he doesn't have to find out," Gerry says, smirking. The gesture leaves the ring on his lower lip just the slightest bit off-center, Jon realizes. He runs his tongue over his own bottom lip, that feels too dry all of a sudde. "As far as anyone knows, it was just a very considerate man looking out for his partner."

"You can't _possibly_ believe that was anywhere close to a good lie," Jon hisses, trying his best to ignore the fact that he doesn't know if he's annoyed or just embarrassed by the ruse.

"It's not unbelievable. Anyone could be my boyfriend," Gerry shrugs. "Martin could have good taste."

"I very much think he doesn't." Jon grumbles. 

"I think he does, actually," Gerry's arm gives his shoulders a squeeze that has Jon's face burning, "besides, the position is open."

Jon coughs. "This is our stop," he says, ignoring the way Gerry rolls his eyes before climbing to his feet.

The conversation is pretty much over after that, but Jon finds -as he usually does, lately- that he has to let go of Gerry's hand to pull the keys out of his pocket.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

"Did you do your exercises today?"

Daisy exhales slowly, her hands on her stomach and her gaze nailed to the ceiling. The cot she shares with Basira feels small at the best of times, but now under her too-heavy stare, it's like laying on a coffin, waiting for the lid to be slammed down again. 

"They won't work."

"What?" Basira doesn't come closer, doesn't sit by the edge of the cot, and Daisy feels more and more like a disgusting, wasted carcass of her old self. 

"The exercises. I- it's not going to work." The truth of her words weighs on her, the call of her blood begging her to follow, to lose herself again. "The only way I'm going to get better is if I hunt again, and I don't- I'm not doing that."

In the long silence that follows, Daisy darts a quick look at Basira. She's standing by the door, her white-knuckled hand shaking around the crumpled edge of a bag of Daisy's favorite takeout. 

"There has to be another way," she says in the end. "What are we supposed to do, just wait for you to die?"

"I don't know. Why don't you ask Elias?" Daisy shrugs. There's a dark pang of delight in her stomach when Basira stiffens, and she sighs. Not exactly a chase, but the Hunt will feed wherever it can. "I'm sorry."

"Do you think I _haven't_?" Basira's voice is tense and hurt. "Do you think I haven't spent every waking moment since you came out trying to find a way to make you-"

"Back to how I was?" Daisy says quietly, and the way it's enough to stop Basira's rising tirade really says a lot. 

"That is _not_ what I want," Basira forces through gritted teeth.

"But it's what you need, isn't it?" After a moment's hesitation, Daisy pushes up into a sitting position, and turns to face Basira. "You were there when I needed you, and now I can't do that for you."

"This is not- I don't keep a _tally_ , Daisy." Basira finally takes a firm step forward and then another and another, until she's standing so close Daisy could reach her if she stretched her arm. She doesn't. "I don't have- I'm just trying to keep everyone from dying, or-"

Basira's voice breaks, and Daisy flinches, eyes wide. In their years working together, she can count on one hand the times she's seen her lose control.

"You were _gone_ ," she snaps, "you were dead, I _mourned_ you. I had to- there was no one else. Everyone was dead, Melanie was more and more unstable, and Martin was doing his secretive bullshit. What was I supposed to do? I was the only one. If I gave up, then it was like letting Elias win, and I was _not_ going to let that happen."

"Basira-"

" _Of course_ I wanted you back. As soon as that lying worm told me there might be a way to pull you out, I-"

"I heard your voice in the Buried." 

Basira freezes. She looks- Daisy has been her partner for years, and the thing with her is, Basira always knows what to do. Even when she doesn't, she knows what should be done _next_. Never a second guess or a moment of doubt, or anything less than cold, hard certainty. Now Basira looks lost, and Daisy can only wonder what that means for her, who's always depended on Basira's solidity to ground herself.

"I'm- I want to be here for you. I want to help, Basira, but I can't- I don't want to go back to the Hunt. Or rather, I want it too much, and I know I won't-" Daisy groans. She's never been good with words, one would think spending an eternity with the Archivist would've helped, but apparently it's too much to wish for. "I just want to be myself, for however long I can. I'm- sorry it's not what you-"

Basira crashes against her, and Daisy feels her breath leave her all at once, as they topple over onto the cot, the crumpled falafel bag landing on the floor to be forgotten. 

"I'll figure something out," Basira's breath is hot against her shoulder. Daisy can smell her coconut shampoo through her headscarf, and it's all she can do to hold her _tighter_ , because they live in a world in which these moments are fleeting and fragile, and all the more precious for it. "For this. For you."

Daisy nods furiously, her eyes shut tight and her blood singing an entirely different song.

"Basira," she says, the only word she knows, the only word that _matters_.

Basira nods like she understands, and Daisy can't bring herself to care about anything else.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! Sorry it's taken me this long to respond to comments, quarantine time really do be like "I'll do it in an hour" and then it's been two weeks huh?
> 
> I'll try to keep up this time! 💪

**XI**

The fact that the Institute building is so beautiful when it holds so much horror is both very fitting and very jarring, Georgie thinks.

Once you know what you're looking for, you can see the subtle eyes carved amongst the leafy motifs wrapping around the exterior pillars, and the unnerving gaze of the rounded window above the double oak doors. 

She doesn't go too close despite the pouring rain, preferring instead to lean against a lamppost across the street and text Melanie that she's already there. This is how she gets a first row seat, partly hidden behind her large umbrella, when Jonathan Sims comes down the street towards this terrible place.

With him is a man she's heard plenty about, tall and broad-shouldered, with long black hair and blue-green eyes. The hand he's not using to hold an umbrella above their heads is deep inside the pocket of Jon's coat, along with his own; Jon is leaning against his arm in that way Georgie knows means he wants you to hold him closer.

That last thought draws a sigh out of her, as the two men draw closer to the Institute. Jon has always been a complicated subject, but he's so much more so lately. Georgie loves him, but she's also terribly aware that every time she allows herself to care, she comes out burned. Just earlier this year she had to sit by his bedside wondering if he would ever wake up again, and if it would really be better if he did. 

They seem to be saying goodbye now, and Georgie can feel the tension from here. Jon is tilting his chin up and slightly to the side, but also leaning slightly away from the man, who's leaning towards Jon, but retreats after a moment, taking a deep breath. Jon lets their hands fall apart as he climbs the steps towards the Institute. The man watches him disappear behind the door, and Georgie starts crossing the street. 

"Hey." The man doesn't flinch at her voice, and Georgie wonders if he knew she was watching. "You're Jon's Gerry, right?"

The man snorts with a hint of resigned humor. "Yeah. I guess that's the only of putting it. You're Georgie?"

"The very one." Georgie nods. "Melanie has told me about you."

"Has she? I'm almost afraid to ask." Gerry smiles at the name, and Georgie finds herself mirroring it. "You look well. Jon will be happy to know."

Georgie sighs. "Actually... please don't tell him you saw me."

"Oh?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.

"I don't- we're not really talking anymore." Georgie shrugs. It's painful to say aloud, because Jon grows on you, with his rare smiles and his quiet gestures of love. Every time she lets him back in, it's a battle to rip him out.

"Huh. I thought he'd stayed with you last year while-"

"While the police looked for him, yes." Georgie crosses her free arm over her chest.

"That's... you do know he didn't do it, don't you?" Gerry frowns.

"Wouldn't have let him into my house if I didn't believe him. I just-" Georgie's gaze drifts towards the Institute. While it -like anything else, really- doesn't inspire any fear in her, she can hardly ignore what she knows about it. "I don't really approve of his decision to stay involved in all of this."

Before her, Gerry stiffens. "Excuse me, his _what_?" His eyes harden.

Georgie scoffs. "I'm not sure how long you've been here for, but Jon is _very_ self destructive."

"Oh no, trust me, _I know_." The man shakes his head, and Georgie knows there's a _story_ there. "But calling it his 'decision' is-"

"Listen, I'm not interested in discussing it," Georgie says, shaking her head. "I _saw_ Jon recording his creepy stories even when he didn't have to, when I _asked_ him to stop, and now Melanie's trapped here because-"

"Because you brought her here," the man snarls, and Georgie freezes.

" _Excuse me?_ " she asks, her voice low and dangerous. 

"Wasn't it you who told her where to give her statement? You're flinging a lot of bullshit accusations around for someone who doesn't even know-"

"Georgie?" Melanie's voice drips down on them colder than any rain could be. "Gerry? What's going on?"

Gerry's face _does_ soften when he looks at Melanie, who descends the stairs and slips her hand into Georgie's like a reverse of the scene she just witnessed from across the street. 

"Nothing. You should talk to her." He turns around then, and starts the walk back up the street, without a single look back.

"...What happened?" Melanie asks, squeezing her hand and looking up at her with a frown.

Georgie forces her body to relax, the man's last accusation still echoing in her mind. She looks back at Melanie, taking in the worried curve of her brows, the raindrops shimmering in her hair, the bags under her eyes from the nightmares. She loves her, Georgie thinks, she has for a while. Was this really all her fault?

"Melanie?"

"Yes?"

Georgie knows, really, that it is her ignorance as well as her lack of fear that has kept her somewhat safe from this world her loved ones move in; it's becoming increasingly difficult though, to stay that way. "I need you to tell me everything."

\--------------------

"What are you thinking?" Melanie asks, reaching a hand to intertwine their fingers together. "It's a lot to take in."

"It's true." Georgie looks down at her cold, untouched meal, replaying Melanie's story in her mind. "If I hadn't suggested you give Jon your statement-"

"Elias would have found me some other way," Melanie says immediately. "I- it's not even like I was marked already when I first came to the Institute. I think what really matters is that I came _back_ , once I was. It's- really, nobody forced me to go around looking for more ghosts, Georgie. I just _had_ to know. The Eye... it really is subtle."

Georgie runs a hand through her hair. This is- all of this, it's too much. "Is there really no way to stop it?"

Melanie pokes at her own half-eaten panini. "Not- I mean, I'm not controlled by the Slaughter anymore. But I signed the contract. That's- as far as we know, we're trapped in there. Jon says he and Daisy sort of were human again when they were in the coffin, but that's another dimension. I don't think there's a way to break it, not while we're alive."

She mulls this over for a moment. So... so Jon wasn't just being difficult when he said he couldn't stop recording the statements, or when he got his hand burnt. He- it's like all the frustration she's been harboring towards him the past year has congealed into a viscous, disgusting knot at the bottom of her stomach.

 _'You don't even have the credentials to be the head archivist'_ , Georgie had said. It's terrible to know that that's probably the reason why Jon was offered the job in the first place. Jon, who's always doubted himself, and overcompensates by throwing himself head-first into things. Almost too easy, like throwing a stray dog a sausage stuffed with crushed glass, and watching it die painfully because it gave in to the need to eat.

"You don't have to just... like him again, you know?" Melanie reaches out to lay her hand on Georgie's. "I don't. I just- this is Elias' game."

And yet the only thought in Georgie's mind is that she left the hospital room without saying goodbye, and the dozens of unread texts and ignored calls in her phone. The fact that they stopped coming, when it became clear they weren't well-received.

"I- let's talk of something else, please," Georgie mutters, nearly begs. Were the nights on her sofa the last peaceful rest Jon had? "Did- did I show you this picture of-"

"Georgie, you're shaking-" Melanie mutters, and Georgie's voice cracks. "I- tell me what's wrong. Please."

But she can't, can she? Distancing from Jon _was_ the right decision, even he probably agrees with that. Still, Georgie can't get rid of the feeling that Jon was reaching out a hand while he drowned, and she just watched him go under.

"I just- I need a moment. Please."

She doesn't look up when Melanie moves her chair beside her, but Georgie does lean into her embrace. This at least she's sure of.

"All the time you need." Melanie says, patient in a way Georgie knows is non-existent with anyone else. "I'm here."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Everything feels different about statements, lately. 

The ones at the Institute never feel like the ones he gets fresh off the source, of course, but even reading those old stale ones, or listening to Gertrude's recordings, bring forth a barrage of information that leaves Jon feeling as though he just finished a well-seasoned meal.

Exactly ninety-eight prisoners were 'freed' from the Japanese encampment by the Nemesis. A hundred and twenty two Japanese soldiers killed each other to the beat of the drums, and some of their hearts were still beating as their recently liberated prisoners stepped over their bodies to go meet the boats at the shore. 

Leonard Holden's last thought, as he twisted Milton Gallagher's neck, was that the commander officer was right, and this was really just like killing chickens back at the farm. When the bayonet first stabbed into his back, he let out not a scream of fear, but the bestial bray of a pig after you slit its throat. He never stopped tapping his feet to the Piper's music.

He barely registers the sound of his door opening and closing, his eyes focused -but unseeing- on the tape recorder on the desk.

As Gertrude moves on with her suppositions, Jon can See the Spider's webs all over the Nemesis, obscuring it from those who could have fed more violence into its fire.

 _"Doesn't help with the Unknowing, though,"_ Gertrude says, and Jon gives a bitter smile, leaning back against the wide, warm hand that comes to rest at his nape. 

"I don't suppose it would." Jon brings a hand of his own to cup the back of his neck, and Gerry intertwines their fingers together.

"Dekker always did have fun ideas," Gerry chuckles. 

_"Gerard may have a connection to the Eye, but I'm not sure it's enough... besides, I must admit I've grown fond of the boy."_

Oh shit. 

Jon scrambles to stop the tape, but Gerry reaches it first, and puts his weight on Jon's shoulder to keep him from getting up.

"Gerry, don't-"

" _I do wonder sometimes, if I should tell him about Eric. He might decide to follow in his father's footsteps, but it's not like it did Eric any good in the end... Anyway, point is..._ " Gertrude continues to ramble on, but Jon couldn't care less about what else she has to say as he pushes his chair back. Gerry's grip on his shoulder has grown lax, as he stares at the tape recorder in his hand with a raised eyebrow.

"Gerry-"

"What does she mean, my father's footsteps?" Gerry's eyes, confused and hurt, fix on his when Jon climbs to his feet. "Jon?"

"I- I don't know." Jon closes his eyes, but the Watcher won't volunteer any information. He digs harder, but is only shoved back with the same ferocity with which knowledge is forced into his head. "Gerry I- oh!" 

When he parts his eyelids again, twin streams of ink are flowing down from Gerry's nostrils, and Jon wipes at them with his sleeve.

"Your shirt-"

" _Stop it_ ," Jon snaps. "What makes you think it will let you Know, if it won't let me? Sit- just stay still already!" he bats away at Gerry's hand, pulling and pushing at him until Gerry's sitting on his chair and Jon stands between his legs, dabbing at the still flowing ink. "Stop trying to-"

"Jon, I _can't_!" Gerry snaps, wrapping a hand around each of Jon's wrists to pull them away from his face. "Do you even- what does she _mean_?!"

"Gerry, I don't _know_." Slowly, very slowly, Jon moves his hands to cup Gerry's face; his eyes are still unfocused, his breathing wild, and the ink is starting to run down his neck. "Please stop. You're hurting yourself." Jon's voice is very nearly begging, but he couldn't care less because Gerry's eyes _finally_ focus on him.

Gerry lets go of his wrists, and Jon's heart skips a beat when his hands come to rest at Jon's hips almost tentatively.

"Doesn't-" Gerry starts, then clears his throat when his voice comes out hoarse and rough. "It's not fun when it's someone else, huh?" he asks, his breathing still coming in long, shaky pulls.

"I- I suppose it's not." Jon slides his thumb over Gerry's cheekbone in an awkward gesture that he hopes transmits comfort. "Are you alright?"

Gerry gives a dry, humorless snort as he sits up on the chair, and Jon lets go of his face to give him more movement. "It's- she was fond of me, she says." Jon stiffens, when Gerry's forehead lands softy on his stomach. "Where was that when she was making my page?"

"...I don't know." Jon whispers, bringing his arms to rest across Gerry's shoulders. "I- there are a lot of things I don't understand about her."

Gerry's arms tighten around his waist. "Of course. Night and day." His voice is muffled against Jon's sweater, his breath filtering through the fabric, searing hot against Jon's skin.

"You loved her." Jon says, not really asking what he already knows. 

"It didn't matter, in the end." Gerry snorts again. It sounds like it did. Like it does. 

Jon digs a hand in Gerry's hair at the base of his neck, a mirror of the gesture Gerry uses on him all the time. 

"I think it matters. I- I don't think Gertrude could afford to care, Gerry, but these recordings- they were for her." She couldn't have expected anyone would find them in her mess of an Archive, for sure. "She cared for you."

Gerry flinches like the words are yet another blow, and Jon tightens his grip on him, this man who only ever wanted to do good with his life, and who was hurt in return every time. 

This man who is _his_ now, something dark and slithery whispers at the back of Jon's mind, to correct the damage, to protect and comfort, if only he was powerful enough.

It's really hard to ignore the Beholding, when it speaks Jon's thoughts aloud. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Martin waits until the woman leaves, before he heaves a long, tired sigh. 

This is... Less than ideal. He gives the whirring tape recorder an accusing glare and a shake of his head. 

"Don't just 'brrrrr' at me. What are you _doing_ , Jon?" he snaps. "Are you just- preying on people now? What am I supposed to do with this?!" He can't give it to Basira or Melanie, they'll _kill_ him before they give him a chance to explain. Martin runs a hand through his hair. 

There _is_ someone else isn't it?

It's a dreadful thought, but after talking to the- to Jon's _victim_ , he feels human enough to realize it's the Lonely feeling it, not him. Gerard is... whatever he is, he's helping. With Jon. 

Martin pockets the tape recorder, and locks the door to Peter's office before starting down the corridor. It's relatively easy to follow in the specific direction the Lonely doesn't want him to go, but Martin feels another, lighter pull against his destination that he suspects might be the Eye.

"Of course you'd prefer him to keep doing it, wouldn't you?" Martin grumbles, glaring at one of the carved eyes in the masonry. "Well-"

"Are you talking to yourself?"

"Jesus!" Martin flinches, turning in time to see a smug smirk spread over Gerard's lips. "Could you _stop_ doing that?!"

Gerard lifts both hands in surrender, his smirk still there and not apologetic in the _least_. "Sorry, sorry. It works just fine to get a bit of color back into you, though."

Martin huffs. "Well, don't. Anyways, I was looking for you."

"You were?" Gerard raises an eyebrow. "Got another Extinction statement?"

"No, actually..." and now that Martin has him before him, he's not really sure of how to put this into words. "Its- Jon has been taking statements," he says, shoving the tape in his direction. That's probably easy enough to understand right?

"O...kay? That's his job, isn't it?" Gerard does take the tape, but he's still giving Martin a quizzical look. 

"No, I- he's- Gerard, he's been _looking_ for statements. From people who don't come to the Institute to give them." And that's when he seems to catch on, because he grimaces, and lets out a low whistle. Martin nods. "A woman came to my office today, he- I think he compelled her."

Gerard looks down at the tape in his hand, the slightest curl of distaste at his lips. "How did she look? Was she...?"

Martin sighs again. "Said she's been having nightmares."

"Yeah..." Gerard shakes his head slowly. "That tracks."

"I just thought... he'll listen to you," Martin says, every word a little sting in his chest. 

"He'd listen to you too," Gerard frowns, "I know you don't want to talk to him because of your isolation thing, but I think it would be better-"

"He loves you," Martin says simply. Like ripping a bandaid, if ripping a bandaid felt like tearing your skin off. He misses the numbness of the Lonely a little, but it's very unlikely he'd be able to call on it right now, not with Gerard right here.

"Whoa!" Gerard's eyebrows shoot up again, and a nervous chuckle escapes his lips as if it's been punched out of him. Martin doesn't miss the color rising on his face, and his lips twitch. "That's- you don't know that."

Martin rolls his eyes. "Gerard-"

"Actually, can you not... call me that?" Gerard interrupts. "It gets on my nerves. Just... Gerry's fine, alright?"

"Oh." Martin blinks. "Okay? What does that have to do with this?"

"Nothing. I just- listen, I've spent every single moment since I was brought back to life hearing about how bad Jon has it for you." Gerry pockets the tape recorder, and Martin wonders if it's really alright, that they went from talking about Jon's victims straight to discussing which one he's in love with. Maybe Peter wasn't that far off when he called the Archives a soap opera. "And it's _very_ frustrating when you keep being as obtuse as possible about it."

"I can't exactly do anything about that, can I?" Martin rolls his eyes. "I'm supposed to be isolating myself to- to save _humanity_ or something, and like we established before, he has _you_ , so-"

"There's more than one way to do these things, you know?" Gerry speaks over him, and Martin has to stop on his tirade due to choking on absolutely nothing. Gerry pats him on the back, and Martin bats his hand away, face burning.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" Martin asks. 

Gerry groans. "You're impossible. I'll talk to him."

He stomps down the stairs to the Archives, and Martin stays there, mortified, confused and a bit exasperated, which is apparently becoming his usual state after any interaction with Gerry.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

"I know you've been feeding." Gerry says once they've sat down at the café, because there is probably not a good way to tell the man you're in love with that the man _he_ is in love with had to come to you so you'd ask him to stop feeding on the fear of innocents.

Across the table, Jon pales immediately. "I- how?" he stutters out, and Gerry wants more than anything to reach over and lay a hand on his to reassure him, but there are things that must be said first. "Who told you?"

"Martin did. He... there was a tape. Apparently someone came in to complain." Gerry reaches inside his jacket, only to find that the pocket is... empty. "Huh. Wait."

He pats the other pockets, as well as the ones on his jeans just in case, but the tape is just gone. Gerry frowns, confused, until the _very_ clear memory of a yellow door at the bottom of a drawer pops up in his mind, and he groans. 

"Why- what would Helen want that tape for?" Jon asks, and Gerry frowns at him when his eyes start to give off the faintest green glow.

"Don't do that. That's exactly why we're here, Jon."

"I- yes. Sorry." Jon sheepishly lowers his gaze to the table. "I... know. I know I shouldn't have done it," Jon sighs. "I just..." his elbows come to rest on the table, and he buries his face in his hands. He looks... small.

There are places of power, for people aligned with the Entities. Mooreland Manor for the Lukases, Ny-Alesünd for the Dark's freaks, and Gerry can't even think about Hilltop Road without getting a headache.

The Archives are like that for Beholders; Elias is never as powerful as he is when sitting behind his desk, but Martin put him in jail and that means Jon is the biggest dog at the Archives now. Here at the little coffeeshop, however, apologizing for his very existence, Jon has never looked more frail. It's a relief, really. He doesn't know what he'd have done if Jon had reacted differently. 

It means he's still Jon, even after all that's happened.

When Gerry reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder, he's half afraid Jon will crumble to pieces under his fingers. Instead, the man's desperate gaze is aimed straight at him, and Gerry's relieved to notice it's not the bright green of the Archivist's eyes, but the sweet dark brown that looks at him over the edges of books at home.

"I don't know how to stop it. I don't even know _why_ I'm doing it. It's- I don't want to hurt people." Jon says in the strained tone of a confession. "I- before the coffin, I knew I would need the strength, it was for Daisy. But after that I've just- it even made the statements a bit better, because I can Know more things about them-"

"Makes sense. Feeding regularly would make you more powerful." Gerry observes. Jon flinches back like the words had been a strike, and Gerry gives him a sympathetic shrug. "It's what you're doing; it's what Avatars do. At least people survive when you feed from them."

"That's... not helping." Jon's face looks pinched.

"No. I don't suppose it is." Gerry squeezes at his shoulder. 

"I just- maybe I can live off of statements alone from now on. It's- they don't really.... but it's better, isn't it?" Jon asks, with the same fervor of a child insisting they can fix the toy they just broke.

"You don't have to stop." Jon's eyes widen at his words, narrowing in suspicion just a moment later. Gerry rolls his eyes. "Yes, yes. You do have to stop feeding off of innocent people, that's not debatable. I wouldn't let you, either. It will only make you change faster, and I'd like to think that's not what you want."

"Of course not!" Jon snaps, shrugging Gerry's hand off his shoulder with an indignant huff. "I don't- that's the opposite of what I want!"

"Mhm. Thought so." Gerry nods. "Feed from willing people, then. People who won't be afraid of you." Jon's face is still fairly flushed after his little outburst, and Gerry has the sudden, very distracting thought that he would very much like to kiss him. But he's got a purpose, at least for now, and most importantly, he doubts it's the purpose the Eye had for him. "Feed yourself, not the Watcher."

"I don't- is that how it works?" Jon frowns. 

"Maybe? It can't hurt."

"That's- I don't think people like that exist, Gerry. Should I only take statements from Institute employees now? Basira won't hear of it, and I won't ask Daisy or Melanie. I'm not going to-"

"Well no, not them." Gerry feels a smile tugging at his lips. Jon is ridiculously blind sometimes, for someone on the cusp of becoming quasi-omniscient. "Start me off, come on"

"...What?" Jon asks, and Gerry doesn't bother holding his grin back. "Gerry, what on Earth are you-"

"Yeah. You know...." Gerry schools his face into stern determination and forces his voice into a deep, affected accent. "Statement of Gerry Keay, regarding-"

"Are you _crazy_?!" Jon snaps. Gerry doesn't miss the new hungry, predatory gleam in his eyes. Maybe if Gertrude had reached this stage of becoming the Archivist, Gerry would've had an easier time mistrusting her; but then again he's literally just offered himself up as a meal for Jon, so maybe his self-preservation instinct is just not great. "I'm not going to take a statement from you!"

"Why not? I've got them in spades." Gerry shrugs.

"Haven't you _heard_ what happens to my statement givers?!" Jon insists, but Gerry can see his hands shaking, white-knuckled around the edge of the table. A dog before a steak that he knows he's not allowed to have. 

Gerry chuckles. "I have nightmares all the time, Jon. This would just be choosing which episode I get to watch. And honestly? Having you there will add a bit of novelty, if you ask me."

"Novel- are you mad?" Jon is shaking. Gerry wants to hold him close and whisper in his ear about the time he set a Vast avatar on fire. "Gerry, you don't want me in your dreams, trust me." 

Gerry leans an elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand with a smile. "Maybe I do, you don't know that." 

"Gerry!" The result is just as he expected, Jon goes red from neck to hairline, and Gerry gives him a wink. "I- that's-"

"Oh my God, he's _flirting_ with you, you absolute moron," comes a new voice from somewhere next to their table. "No wonder you never noticed Martin wanted your sorry ass."

Gerry turns to face the newcomer, and his mind flares with alarms when his eyes land on the man's and the only thing he can see is _fire_. He was marked by the Stranger once, and the Eye as well; both marks have been burned away though, and they remain in his soul only as a reminder, with no real pull over him.

"Coffeeshop date and everything, statement included? You're getting lucky, Boss." The man speaks again, fixing Jon with an amused smirk, like this is a shared joke between them. Gerry can feel the temperature rise around them however, and see the barely concealed anger in his eyes. 

It's not a look Gerry specially likes on a Desolation avatar looking at his Archivist.

Jon's face that was so flushed with color just a minute ago has gone pale, and Gerry tenses in preparation for a fight.

"... Tim?" Jon's voice is soft, almost... hopeful. After a moment though, his brow furrows, and his next words are grave and laced with a compulsion so heavy Gerry can taste the resentment as the words flow into his core. "Are you the real Timothy Stoker?"

The man's face contracts into a bitter mask as the compulsion washes over him. His body stiffens and his shoulders tense as he tries to resist the pull, but he fails, of course.

"Thought I'd hate it less now, but it's still the fucking worst." The man rolls his eyes, letting out a huff of steam. "I am. At least as much as you're, you know... you."

"The Desolation claimed you-" Jon doesn't really ask now. "At the Unknowing?"

"Big fan of my work, it looks like." Tim shrugs. "They buried my remains you know? The Desolation turned the whole grave into a cremation chamber for me to wake up. Climbed out just like that; I think I'm made of ash now."

And… yeah, that would explain the random fires they've been hearing about.

"So- so you're..." Jon starts, stops and clears his throat. "You're what, an avatar now? You're lik-"

"Boss, if you say 'like me' I'm going to punch you," the man interrupts him, and Jon's face tightens in pained recognition, like the threat of violence is much more credible as a confirmation of this man's identity than a compelled confession.

Maybe it is, and Gerry feels a burst of unreasonable irritation at the way Jon looks at his former assistant like he's both a ghost and a miracle, when Tim looks at Jon like he's a bug he'd like to step on. 

"Tim... why are you here?" Jon asks. The compulsion is subtler this time, but still there.

"Honestly?" Tim asks, like he has any other choice. "I'm not sure. When I woke up, I wanted to see how the others were. Martin at least. Melanie, maybe. And..." he purses his lips, but doesn't manage to keep the rest of the words in. "I wanted to hurt you, if you were still alive."

Gerry stiffens in his chair, ready to hop up as soon as the man moves too abruptly. Across him, Jon looks... resigned. Like he'd known the answer before he even asked the question. 

"Ah. Yes I- I can believe that." Jon sighs. "Are you going to?"

"He can certainly try," Gerry responds before Tim can even open his mouth, because he's getting _sick_ of seeing Jon grovel for this guy's abuse.

"Gerry-"

"I'm not a hunter, but I've put out some fires before." Gerry speaks over Jon this time, his eyes fixed on Tim. He makes sure to lean back on his chair, and leave his chest open. Show this man that whatever fear he came looking for, he's not going to find here. "Molina died just fine with a scalpel."

Tim frowns, and much to Gerry's displeasure, looks much more confused than he does concerned. Something seems to click in his mind, because his eyes go the size of saucers, and he whips around to face Jon again.

"Gerard Keay?! _The_ Gerard Keay?" he asks, and now it's Gerry who's confused. How does- "You're getting your freak on with the angry goth that shows up in every other statement? Isn't he supposed to be dead?"

Oh.

"I don't think either of us have any right to criticize _anyone_ for not staying dead." Jon frowns. Gerry feels his mouth dry up; that's not the part he expected Jon to take issue with. "Now answer the question, please."

"Oh? Why don't you try your thing again? Don't really want to know?" Tim arches an eyebrow in challenge.

Jon rolls his eyes. "I know what you think of me, Tim. I'm not going to-"

"You literally _just_ did it."

"Because I didn't know if you were... something else!" Jon snaps "I wanted to know if you meant harm to anyone in the Arch-"

"Oh, so you're the watchdog now?" Tim takes another step towards the table, and Gerry's napkin begins to smoke. "You keep everyone safe, you protect them?" He asks. His words are laced with mockery, striking like a cracking whip.

"I try-" Jon stutters angrily, only to be interrupted once more.

"Well isn't that _great_? You're definitely good at that, Boss, it's not like you've gotten what? Four people killed already?" Tim snarls. Gerry puts his napkin out with a couple pats, but he finds himself realizing he's not too worried. Desolation avatars _know_ how to destroy. Tim could probably send the entire shop up in flames so hot only he would survive it, but he clearly doesn't want to. "They must be so reassured that you're taking care of them, Martin must be over the-"

" **Shut up!** " Jon's voice cuts cleanly through Tim's, and Tim's mouth clicks closed as static builds up around them. "I'm- I tried Tim. I did- I _am_ doing my best to fix what I did wrong. I'll be the first to admit I- I made mistakes. And I know you won't forgive me, but- but I'm done. I- I'm done with begging you. What was it that you told Elias while I was gone? Either kill me, or-"

"Or fuck off" Tim nods. His eyebrows are arched, and when he speaks again his voice carries a hint of reluctant admiration. "Grew a pair while I was away, huh? Bit too late. If you ask me."

"Tim-"

"Yeah. Yeah, whatever. I'm not... I _should_ hurt you." Tim shrugs. It's stilted, too tense when he's trying to look casual. "But I don't want to. I think that part died too. The real me, you know?"

Jon's face goes from closed off to hopeful so quickly Gerry cringes a little. Whoever this man was -is-, he's... important, for Jon. Whether he likes it or not.

"So you-"

"I don't want anything." Tim rolls his eyes. "Well that's a lie. I want to destroy things. See the world burn and all, you know the drill. But I don't- Just stay away from me, Jon."

Jon flinches at his name, almost as if 'Boss' had been a quirky nickname and not some sort of mockery. Gerry guesses it _could_ have been, and the thought makes him like it even less.

"Those are some bold words, when you were the one that came in here." Gerry arches an eyebrow, his hand balled over the smouldering napkin. 

Tim rolls his eyes. "I figured I'd decide whether or not I wanted to melt his face off when I saw him," he says. "Wouldn't get too close if I were you. People who care for him don't end well." 

He walks away without waiting for a response, and the air around them begins to cool down immediately. Gerry watches his back until the coffeeshop's door closes behind him.

"Do you want me to go after him? I can- Jon?" whatever he was going to add fades from his mind when he looks back. 

If Jon had looked sad when apologizing for feeding, now he looks... miserable.

Gerry knows all too well he's not built for comforting people. He can protect them alright, but there's a lack of action inherent to comfort that always manages to make him feel like he's doing everything wrong, like he should be doing something to _fix_ the problem instead of just being there. 

Maybe it should've been Martin who brought Jon here, Gerry thinks bitterly, because he would fight the world for Jon, but what good is it if he cannot make things right?

"... Do you want to talk?" he asks. That's how this is done right? Communication, catharsis, comfort. He can't fuck up a simple formula.

Jon looks up at him, a hand buried in his tangled mess of hair. His eyes are still shiny, but less with the thrill of a potential statement, and more with something Gerry doesn't want to even think about.

"Tim was my friend," Jon says, and he seems to grow even smaller as he talks. "He moved to the Archives for me."

"Jon..."

"Guess this is the best outcome there could've been. At least he's free now."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Martin notices the melted doorknob as soon as he walks up to his flat door. It's not a great sign, probably, but also not something he's really in the mood for dealing with after the day he's had.

The Lonely kept coming and going at random today, and the complete numbness of it coupled with the bursts of intense emotion when he found his mind clear of it were _exhausting_.

"Whoever's in there-" Martin calls as he pushes the door open, careful to not touch the still warm metal "-I'm _really_ tired. Please just say what you want, and go?"

The flat is completely dark, and Martin's eyes latch on to the two burning embers that he guesses belong to whoever came to kill-

"Dear, sweet Martin, telling the entities to behave. Things really _have_ changed, haven't they?"

The voice crashes against him like a wave, terrifyingly familiar and entirely too disorienting; Martin leans heavily on the table by the door, knocking his mother's picture back. The warmth and the slight hint of humor contrasting with the raw bite of the words. 

"T- Tim?" Martin gathers himself enough to flick the lights on, and sure enough there's Timothy Stoker, leaning by the door to his kitchen. 

He looks exactly like he did the day he left for the wax museum with Jon; the scars from the worms littering his skin, the artfully messed hair, the confident curve to his lips. The only difference is his eyes, two burning coals in the middle of the much beloved face.

"Surprise," Tim says, elongating the word so much Martin can see the sarcasm bleeding off of it. "Turns out my old flat is not mine anymore, who knew? I'm going to need a place to crash for a while."

"I don't- how are you here?" Martin asks, still holding to the table for the stability that seems to have fled his world so suddenly. "You were- we buried you! Is- is it really you?"

"I had my doubts." Tim shrugs, making no move to get closer. "But I said I was when Jon asked, and it's not like I can lie to him, so I-"

"Jo- you went looking for Jon?" Martin's heart skips a beat. That can't be a good thing, that- "did you hurt him?"

Tim laughs at that, long and loud and bitter in rivulets of steam that raise from his parted lips.

"I should've known. _No_ , Martin, I didn't hurt Jon." He says, his voice curling venomously at the name. "I wanted to. I really did. But when I was there, I-" his mouth moves around half formed words that he can't seem to give voice to, and his eyes flare up bright enough that Martin sees the glow even with the lights on. 

"You couldn't." Martin blurts out when the revelation strikes, and Tim flinches. "I- that's- not that that's a bad thing, but Tim-"

"He compelled me, you know?" Tim spits out. "At the Unknowing. I was going to give her the detonator, but then he asked me to look, and I was so _angry_ at him that everything was clear for a moment. And I killed us."

Martin takes a small, careful step towards him.

"You saved the world, Tim."

And Tim looks up at him, with a humorless smile. 

"All I wanted at that moment was to kill him, her, and me, Martin. And I couldn't even do that." He pushes sharply off the wall then, and Martin restrains the urge to move back. "And I _had_ him there today, he was practically _begging_ me to do it, and I _couldn't_ \- why couldn't I kill him, Martin?"

He looks... devastated. Like the only certainty he had was just ripped from him and shattered before his eyes, and Martin has a moment to consider just how sad it is, that Tim depended so much on his hatred for the man whose friendship he treasured once. This new world has made strangers out of them all, empty husks that feed on resentment while yearning for a past that won't come back.

Martin takes a step forward, and then another, and another, and he only remembers Jack Barnabas' statement by the time his arms are closing around Tim, but it doesn't do much to stop him. Tim is in need of a friend, and Martin -or whatever is left of him that Gerry has managed to wrestle out of the Lonely- is the only one left.

Tim's arms come to wrap around Martin's back roughly, almost violently- Martin guesses that's now just as much a part of Tim as anything else.

"You melted my doorknob," Martin mumbles into the hug.

Tim snorts, and just for a moment, everything is right.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

"Ouch," Basira grunts, and Daisy flinches back like she's been burned. 

"Did I bite you? I'm sorry, I-"

"No, stop." Basirs lays a hand down on her head to still her, and Daisy looks up. Basira's rubbing at her forehead with a pained frown on her face. "Something just fell on me."

Daisy scowls, but a look around the room reveals they're alone. "What-" she catches the corner of something black and shiny poking from between the sheets. "Is that a tape recorder?"

Basira groans, and Daisy pats her thigh with a sympathetic smile. 

"I'll ask Melanie to talk to Helen about timing."


	12. Chapter 12

**XII**

Jon doesn't want to talk about Tim, it turns out. Gerry doesn't press the subject, but he realizes as they go back to the flat that Jon's burrowing closer to him than usual. It may be a bit selfish to enjoy holding Jon close when he's only looking for comfort, but he can't bring himself to feel guilty at the spark of pride in his chest that comes from knowing Jon feels safe when pressed against his side.

"The offer still stands," Gerry says quietly as he sits on the sofa. "I could feed you, anytime you need it."

"That's not-" Jon drops on the seat next to him with a huff. "I don't want to use you. You- it's already bad enough that- that you can't leave this place if you want to."

"You know? I don't think I would." Gerry shrugs. "Not anymore."

The silence that falls over them after his words is heavy and tense, like a net about to break under the tension of their unsaid words.

"Was Tim right?" Jon asks after a moment. His voice has the bitter taste of nerves when it pours into him, and Gerry has a sinking feeling that he knows where this is heading, but that's miles away from knowing how he feels about it. He supposes he _did_ want to have this conversation, but the timing is not... ideal. "Was that flir- is that what you were doing?"

Honesty has never failed him when it comes to Jon, Gerry decides, taking a deep breath to still whatever is stirring in his stomach. "I was. Thank you for noticing," he says. Then, after Jon's face goes carefully blank, "we should talk about it, shouldn't we?"

Jon grimaces. "I would rather we didn't."

"Huh. Okay, we don't have to. Can I- is there a reason why?" Gerry asks, ignoring the pang of pain at the refusal. It's not like he didn't know what he was getting into with this man that has been treated so unfairly by this world that he's wary to feel anything that is not fear and pain.

"Because-" Jon starts, stops, then starts again after a deep breath and a slow exhalation. "Because it took me three and a half years to figure out how I felt about Martin, and this- Gerry, how do we know this is not the Beholding making you _think_ you feel-"

"Oh no," Gerry cuts in as irritation sparks in his stomach. "No. Jon, I'm a grown man. And a fairly smart one, if I do say so myself. _Believe_ me when I say I know when the Beholding wants me to feel a certain way, and this is not one of those things."

Jon sputters a little, and Gerry shifts away on the sofa when he starts looking a little like a cornered animal. "But that- it makes no sense, why-"

"For God's sake- Jon, the stubbornness is part of the charm, but you make this very difficult." Gerry runs a hand down his face. Of course, _of course_ this is Jon's thing, his need to believe everyone deserves better, except himself. "Listen. I'm not going to give you an itemized list, so go ahead and compel me if you don't believe me. I'm- I have feelings. For you." And they say romance is dead.

Jon's mouth is hanging open, his breathing is shallow, and Gerry worries for a moment that he's going to have an actual panic attack over this. That would make this one of his most awkward love declarations, for sure.

"Gerry I- this is-"

"Look, it's alright." Gerry lifts a hand to stop him "I know how you feel about Martin, Jon. This is not- I'm not demanding anything from you."

"I know you're not," Jon mutters, his gaze dropping. "I know you wouldn't."

"Except... I guess I _am_ demanding that you take my feelings seriously, because they're real." Gerry hunches over a little to look at Jon in the eye. "It doesn't matter what you do with them. Just- I don't regret this. I don't regret _you_."

"Yet," Jon says so lightly it might as well have been Gerry's imagination, if not for the fact that he knows perfectly well it's something Jon would think. "I need a moment."

Gerry nods slowly. "All the time you need."

He's expecting Jon to retreat into his bedroom, so he's understandably surprised when the man just... stays there, looking ahead at the blank screen of the TV as the seconds stretch on and on. Fine, this is... not awkward or uncomfortable at all. It occurs to Gerry at around the four minute mark that maybe _he_ should leave instead, this is Jon's space after all. He wants to ask, but he did _just_ say 'all the time you need', like an idiot and-

Slowly, clumsily, Jon's burn-smooth fingers tangle with Gerry's on the cushions. _Oh_.

"I- you said you know how I feel about Martin." Jon doesn't turn to face him, but Gerry figures it's alright.

"I do. If you ask me, it's a bit rude that no one's thought to ask _me_ how I feel about Martin," Gerry says casually. Jon's face whips around like he's been slapped, and Gerry struggles to keep his face straight at Jon's puzzled frown.

"I thought..." Jon lets the thought trail off into a questioning silence, and Gerry shrugs again.

"Martin is... he loves you." That much is true, however you look at it. "That's enough for me to give him a chance. And you know? He's not half bad, when he's not being overly dramatic about me being at his flat uninvited."

Jon doesn't even seem to register the joke. His face is a study in changes so minimal Gerry probably wouldn't notice if he wasn't looking for them; as it is, he can see the confusion in Jon's eyes, read the slightest hint of fear in the way his lips purse tightly against each other.

"I'm saying you don't have to choose, Jon." Gerry says as calmly as he can. He's quite lucky he doesn't have a heart anymore, he decides. "I'm here, if you want me. Any way you want me."

Jon's face is looking steadily more and more flushed, but he doesn't seem to be panicking anymore, which is... good. "Is- I don't know if- is that really fair to you?"

"What? Sharing you?" Gerry asks, and Jon coughs nervously. "Talk to me?"

"I'm just- I don't often-" Jon runs his good hand through his hair with a sheepish, awkwardly pleased chuckle, and Gerry has the thought that if he wasn't completely gone for Jon already, this would be enough to do him in. "I don't think I've ever had anyone talk of it like-"

"Like you're something good that I would want to keep for myself?" Gerry's lips twitch into a smile when Jon's face flushes even more, and it's both endearing and sad, how even the delight at the confession is guarded and the slightest bit disbelieving. "Because you are. But who knows? You love Martin; we'll work something out, because Mister Sims, I am in love with you."

It's a thrill to say it, to see Jon's eyes widen the slightest bit, his lips twitching almost nervously into his usual lopsided smile. Gerry feels his stomach flip at the sight, and has the fleeting thought that he'd gladly spend the rest of his life saying those words again, if it elicits that reaction. Who knows? Perhaps the two of them will be enough to convince him they mean it, once they get Martin back.

"We should-" Jon clears his throat. "Should we be focusing on this? With everything else that's happening?" he asks, but he doesn't take his hand back and as far as Gerry's concerned, that's an invitation to continue the talk.

"I don't know. I think we should." Gerry runs his thumb over Jon's knuckles. He's learned a few things in his years of fighting entities, about the things that make you keep going when there is no light around you. "It's the small things, the... the normal things-"

"They give you a purpose," Jon breathes out slowly. He turns to look at Gerry then, his face veiled in a soft awe that _almost_ looks like hope.

"They really do." Gerry whispers back. It's foreign, to be seen as a motive instead of a tool. Exciting. "I-"

"Can I kiss you?" Jon blurts out, and Gerry half chokes, half snorts on whatever he was going to say next. Jon's face is equal parts embarrassment and determination. "It's okay if-"

"No, I-" try as he may, Gerry can't hold back a delighted laugh. "I would like that very much, Jon."

Slowly, Jon's hands come to cup his face like they did some days ago at his office, when Gertrude mentioned- Gerry pushes the thought away, focusing instead on Jon's nervous face as he rises up in his knees, and he lets his eyes fall closed when Jon tilts his head to the side.

Jon's lips are warm and tentative in their advance, and if his voice was intoxicating, his touch is simply _addictive_. Gerry finds himself trailing after him when Jon pulls back, and his stomach does a flip at the pleased chuckle that comes from deep in Jon's throat as he concedes into a second kiss.

Gerry's tongue pokes out almost on reflex to wet at the chapped lips pressed against him, and Jon's mouth parts like the light caress had been a command, catching Gerry's lower lip between his.

When they part again, Jon's teeth catch and pull softly at the ring on Gerry's lip, and Gerry's eyes fly open as Jon retreats. They sit there in tense silence, until Gerry's eyebrows raise and he tilts his head, giving him an amused, questioning smile as he jangles the piercing with his tongue.

Jon's blush is almost luminous, and Gerry cackles as he goes to pull this ridiculous, perfect man into a hug, and perhaps -if he's lucky- a couple more kisses.

\----------------------------------------------------

"...Huh." Melanie rips a few more strands of grass. "So he's back?"

"Seems like it. Just thought you should know, maybe tell Basira." Gerry shrugs beside her. It's nice to just lay down on the grass at the park and relax, now that their mysterious fires turned out to be a -somewhat- false alarm. "Jon compelled him, so I believe him when he says he's not here to hurt anyone, but I'm still going to keep an eye on him."

Melanie turns to look at him, and sure enough he's got an award-winning frown on his face. "Why? It's not like he can lie to Jon."

"Don't like him."

It takes a second, before the dots connect in Melanie's mind, and she sprinkles her handful of grass over him. "Was he mean to your boyfriend?" she asks with a teasing smile.

Gerry turns to her, unimpressed, and blows a strand of grass off his nose. "Actually, yes. But it's alright, we kissed a lot afterwards, and it was fine."

Melanie groans. "Say _one more_ thing about that, and I'm going to go back to my stabbing days."

Gerry laughs, and Melanie feels her lips twitch into a smile. It's a nice day to not be afraid.

\----------------------------------------------------

Jon's office is large enough, but it still feels uncomfortably cramped when Basira pulls Daisy and Melanie in, and Jon has the _gall_ of looking questioningly up at them.

"I- what's this about?" Jon frowns, climbing to his feet.

"Sit. Down." Basira orders. Jon arches an eyebrow, but he complies with the order.

"Daisy?" he asks, and Basira feels her blood boil when Daisy just shrugs by her side.

"We found something, Jon." Daisy says almost softly. Basira punctuates it by slamming the tape recorder on the desk, and Jon flinches back.

"Ah," he says almost sadly, looking at the tape like a note left behind by someone long gone. "We'd been wondering where that would end up. Should've known."

"So you know what it is." Melanie comes closer to the desk with cautious steps, and Basira doesn't warn her to stand down because she can't for the life of her decide on what outcome she wants for this, not when something inside her pushes back against the indignation, against the knowledge that this is _wrong_ , like a snake whispering that she too could reach for the offered fruit.

"That would be Jessica Tyrell's tape. Or rather... her statement," Jon mutters quietly. "About her meeting with the Archivist."

"Nice to know you at least remember her name." Basira crosses her arms, as the name flares up like a searchlight in her mind.

"I remember all of them." Jon sighs.

" _What_?" Basira slams her hands on the desk, and shakes off the hand Daisy lays on her shoulder.

Flanking Jon's side, Melanie rolls her eyes. "You're really not helping your case."

"I suppose I'm not," Jon says, nodding. "I'm not going to deny I hurt these people."

"So what? Are we supposed to just think it's alright because you're sorry?" Basira feels Daisy's hand come to rest at her shoulder again, firmer this time. "Just forget about it?"

"That is _not_ what I'm saying." Jon gives her an impatient eyeroll, and Basira wants to _strangle_ him. She's been working herself to the bone to keep everyone alive and human, and this _idiot_ -

"How many?"

It takes him a moment, before he dares bringing up his eyes to meet hers. "Seven, counting Miss Tyrell."

"Jon..." Daisy whispers by Basira's side, sad and hurt, and Jon averts his eyes, before he starts again.

The first one, he says, was an accident. He was out for a smoke a few days before he had his revelation about Melanie, when he realized he'd forgotten his lighter. That rings a bell in Basira's mind; she knows he always carries the shiny silver zippo with the spiderweb design. He walked into a shop to purchase another, he says, and Basira forgets about it. That's what you do when you lose your lighter, it makes perfect sense. The man, he says, wasn't even scheduled to work that day; his coworker woke up with terrible cramps, and he offered to cover their shift. Jon asked him where the lighters were, and then he asked about the warehouse.

The second was a woman he found when he went to take a walk by the riverside, because he wasn't healing well after Melanie stabbed him.

"I thought you hated walking by the river, because of the smell." Daisy mutters, and another bell rings in Basira's mind.

"This is not my fault. Don't put the blame on me," Melanie says firmly, and the bell -if there ever was one- falls silent again as Jon nods in agreement.

The next three he sought on purpose, but they came to him almost like it was them who were hunting him instead. A woman whose phone slipped from her hands and split to pieces on the ground, when she desperately needed to make a call. A man whose son, who was supposed to meet him there, was delayed due to heavy traffic caused by an accident. The last of them, ironically enough, needed a lighter. If there are any alarms in Basira's mind, she doesn't hear them, because Jon says without the strength he got from these three, he would never have found Daisy in the coffin.

Jess Tyrell he found in a coffeeshop that he heard Martin mention years ago. She saw an ad for it on Facebook before going to bed, and decided on a whim to treat herself to lunch there the next day, even if it was out of the way for her. Basira stops to think it over for a moment, but she decides in the end that it makes sense Jon would seek solace in a place that reminds him of Martin.

The last one was a man asking for change at a corner, when Jon went out to purchase coffee because they were running out at his flat. He usually sat at a different corner, but that particular morning someone called the police about a pickpocket in the area, and he decided to move for the day, just to avoid talking to them. Jon had dropped a ten pound note in his cup, and handed him a store-bought sandwich before he asked about the scars on his face.

All through Jon's tale, Basira feels something prickling at her nape. It itches and tickles as it crawls just along the edge of her consciousness, where she can't swat at it, and she can't put her finger on just what it is, because she keeps getting distracted by the thought that Jon has been _feeding on innocents_ right under her nose.

"I- turns out I won't have to do it anymore," Jon says, and Basira realizes he hasn't stopped talking.

Melanie arches an eyebrow. "Do you think that's why the Eye brought him? So you could feed from him?"

"As an emergency resource only, if I had to guess." Jon sighs. "The Eye would much rather I keep hunting."

"Well, you won't. It can't keep changing you if you don't let it." Basira says dryly. Jon's eyes, when they land on hers, are a bright, uncanny green. "Don't say-"

"I think you Know better now, Basira." It's not the words themselves, but the _sadness_ in Jon's voice, what makes her recoil from the desk.

"Basir-"

Daisy's question goes unanswered, as Basira rushes out the door while her heart tries to beat a hole through her chest.

\----------------------------------------------------

The door to Martin's office is not uncannily cold when Gerry pushes it open. That's a good sign, at least.

"Hey. I talked to-" Gerry's eyes catch a flare of movement and light, and he crouches to the ground almost on instinct.

"Tim!" Martin's horrified voice comes from somewhere to his right, along with his heavy steps and a sound like cloth slapping against wood.

Gerry looks up to find Martin patting off a smouldering patch on the wall, and he grunts. Of fucking course.

"What are you doing here?" Gerry asks as he rises to his feet again. Tim's hand is still stretched towards him, his eyes burning like an unattended fire.

"You're a bit confused." Tim climbs from his chair, and the temperature in the office rises even more. "What are _you_ -"

"Could you two _stop_ that?" Martin snaps. "Tim, sit down."

Gerry watches in amazement, as the man obeys with nothing more than a sullen, wary look.

"Why is he here?" the man asks, frowning.

"Because I _asked_ him to be here." Martin rolls his eyes, and Gerry Knows with sudden, delighted certainty that Tim has _no idea_ , that Martin hasn't told him about the Extinction or why he's isolating himself. "Gerry, what happened?"

"I talked to him," Gerry says, making sure to be as vague as possible. "We figured something out."

Martin nods. "About..."

"About a couple things." Gerry feels his lips curl into a smirk, as Tim is practically boiling on his chair. "I'll tell you more next time. But that's settled."

"That's... that's really good." Martin gives a relieved sigh, and he seems to regain a bit more color, before fixing him with a warm, relieved smile. "Thank you, Gerry."

"Anytime," Gerry smiles back. It has the added benefit of riding the room's temperature a few more degrees. "I'll see you later for the tapes. Alone, hopefully."

"Fuck off." Tim snarls, but Gerry's already closing the door behind him.

His smile fades almost immediately, and he leans back against the door. Watching out for Martin's humanity is already hard enough without the beacon of destruction and rage that is Timothy Stoker. What is he even doing at the Institute, wasn't he so desperate to leave and be free? It's-

"You must be Gerard Keay." It's not until the man speaks that Gerry even notices he's there, and that says more about who he is than the name the Eye whispers into his mind as he looks up into the face of the tall, grey-haired stranger. Fuck.

"Peter Lukas, I suppose." Gerry squares up, arching an eyebrow and reaching behind himself as discreetly as he can, until he can turn the doorknob and crack the door open. For all his girth and bulk, Lukas looks almost ethereal, like a faraway form you can barely make out through the fog before dawn, like the silhouettes sailors made into sea monsters and legend.

"Temporary Head of the Institute, yes." Lukas gives him a jovial smile. If he noticed the opening door, he makes no mention of it. Gerry hopes the fact that Lukas is practically looking through him means he's not paying attention to what he does. "It has come to my attention that you've been... intervening, in my assistant's training."

Well, there go his hopes of helping Martin unnoticed.

"I think Martin is plenty qualified already," Gerry says with a smirk. "No need to train him anymore," he adds loudly to cover the muffled scurrying inside the office.

"The Watcher gave you a second chance as a chewtoy for the Archivist, and I, unlike Elias, am under no obligation to tolerate your meddling." Lukas' smile remains, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "If you keep messing with my affairs-"

Gerry can't help it. He snorts. "What? You'll throw me into the Lonely?"

Lukas' eyes narrow in anger. "Well, aren't you cheeky."

"I am, thank you for noticing." Gerry snorts. "Believe me, Lukas, even if I had the slightest trace of respect left for you after working under Gertrude for years, your threats wouldn't work on me."

"If you think-"

"Actually, I Know. Try it if you want to waste your time, but you can't touch me." Gerry interrupts, his face growing serious. "I know exactly where my anchor is."

"I guess we'll see, won't we?" Lukas gives him a look of distaste. Gerry _really_ hopes he managed to buy enough time for Martin to push his friend through a window or something, because he really _would_ be risking a holiday in the Lonely, if Lukas gets any more riled up.

"I guess we will." Gerry pats the man on the shoulder as he passes, delighting in the way he almost seems to recoil from his touch. "Get fucked."

\----------------------------------------------------

"So you finally talked?" Daisy asks. They're sitting against the corner of his office again, their backs to the wall and down on the floor to make the room look bigger than it is.

Jon leans his head on her shoulder, and she leans her head on his. "We did. Mostly about my feeding, but... other things too."

"That's good. He cares about you."

"Is Basira- how is she?" Jon asks. It had been a stupid thing to say, and now she hasn't talked to him in two days.

"She's- it's difficult, Jon," Daisy says with a sigh. "She doesn't want to admit she's- Basira's constant. She doesn't change and-"

"Well that's just boring, isn't it?" Helen says by Jon's other side. He feels Daisy flinch, but he Saw the moment the door appeared on the floor beside them, and so he's not surprised when it opens, and Helen leans her crossed arms over the edge, the tips of her fingers reaching far past the edges of the door. "To always be the same? Predictable."

"Some people like stability, Helen." Jon rolls his eyes, leaning over to take a peak at Helen's corridors. From this angle it's like looking into a well-furnished pitfall, and he sees Helen's body hanging into it, much longer than it ought to be. He also sees a shadow, bending a corner at a full run many, many miles inside Helen. "Did you eat someone?"

"Not _someone_." Helen smiles to the tips of her ears. "Not all of us can have a sweetheart that doubles as a snack cabinet, Jon."

He has the fleeting thought that he likes that she uses his name, when she called him Archivist before.

"Why did- hm." He stops himself before completing the question. It's about choice, he remembers. Or it should be. "I'd like to know why you gave them the tape."

Above him, Daisy nods approvingly. Jon snorts. Three monsters learning how to be civil to each other.

"Backup plan." Helen's shoulders shrug way over her head. "In case he wasn't enough to stop you."

"Very determined to save my humanity, I see."

"It seemed like the kind of thing you'd care about."

Jon sighs. "It is. You probably could've dropped it to Melanie instead, however. Basira has a lot on her plate, like Daisy said, with her changes. Not to mention she's still trying to find leads on the ritual for the Dark and-" Jon stops, when Daisy's breathing stops.

"She's what?" she asks, and only then does Jon catch on to the fading static, and the soft pressure of the Eye in his mind. Daisy straightens, and he closes his eyes to take a breath and let some more Knowledge come. Helen is looking curiously up at him, when he parts his eyelids again.

"At Ny-Alesünd. The cult of Mr. Pitch has their Dark Sun there, and- and she knew this," Jon lets out an irate laugh. "Of course she did."

He climbs to his feet, vaguely registering the sound of Helen's door closing and Daisy standing up to match him.

"Jon-" she calls, but he's already crossing the office and out the door.

Helen's door has reappeared by the side of Basira's cot, but she doesn't seem to have noticed, lost in her book as she is.

"I thought we were done with secrets." Jon comes to a halt a few feet before the cot, and Daisy advances some more, standing almost between them.

Basira turns the last page of her book, and turns up to look at them. "That's a conversation starter."

Daisy sighs, and Jon rolls his eyes. "Ny-Alesünd, Basira. The ritual. When were you going to tell us?" he asks. Something in his chest begins to loosen up, and he wonders if it's just the promise of more knowledge helping to calm his irritation.

Basira's face clears of confusion then, though it does close off a little more. "I was gathering intel," she says, and Jon has to restrain himself from asking if it was tasty, because he doesn't want a broken nose, not even for a few minutes. "How do you know about it?" Jon arches an eyebrow. "Ah."

"Elias told you?" Jon asks. The Eye didn't volunteer that, and without the freedom to feed -a freedom he _doesn't_ want, he reminds himself- Jon didn't think it wise to force it.

"He mentioned it." Basirs gives a sharp, annoyed shrug. "I had to make sure he was-"

"Are we having another intervention?" a third voice asks.

"Welcome back, Melanie," Helen pokes out of her door to greet the newcomers, and Jon turns. The feeling of calm that blanketed over his annoyance makes a lot more sense now, even if Gerry -and Melanie by extension- is caked head to toe in dirt. "Found another one of your books?"

"Had to unbury it before we could burn it." Melanie shrugs. "What's this about?" she sounds calm, if slightly puzzled, and Jon feels a pang of relief run through him.

Violence still lurks under Melanie's skin like a bull confined to a pen, but she's controlled it, _redirected_ it, and none of it is aimed at the people in this room, not even _him_.

Gerry comes to stand behind him, and his hand lands on Jon's shoulder as easily as breathing. "What's going on?"

Jon gives Basira a pointed look. "What's going on, Basira?"

"You know what, Jon?" Basira climbs to her feet and goes to take a step forward, when Daisy lays a hand on her arm to still her. "You're acting _very_ self righteous about sincerity in your little 'team', for someone who felt like he had the right to hide that you were feeding on innocent people for months."

"It's not-" Jon sputters, only to be interrupted.

"Yeah, okay, but why didn't you tell _me_ about whatever this is about?" Melanie asks, frowning. "Was that another one of your 'I'm the only one qualified enough' bullcrap, or are you only telling Daisy things now?"

Daisy's hand tenses, when Basira flinches at the accusation. "Who was she supposed to tell? She-"

"Daisy-" Jon goes to take a step forward, but Gerry's grip on his shoulder tightens and pulls at him, and he too can See the blood rising inside the woman. "Daisy. The quiet."

Daisy turns to him with a snarl, but her gaze does begin to soften, and the growl that was mixing with his own static starts fading back into her throat-

"Aw, it was _just_ about to get interesting." Helen's breathy, echoing laughter washes over them all, and the Distortion doesn't even have the decency to flinch when they turn to glare at her.

"Helen-" Melanie starts, but Gerry lays his free hand on top of her head, and she huffs, crossing her arms.

"You're all really bad at this," Gerry observes.

"Oh, sure. Am I supposed to believe you and Gertrude had a healthy communication, and you ended in a book on accident?" Basira snaps. Gerry's hand flinches on his shoulder and Jon bristles, suddenly furious.

She can lob any and all accusations at Jon, he's earned her mistrust; but Gerry's just trying to help, and he won't allow-

"Jon." Daisy says simply. "The quiet."

It's only then that Jon realizes the static around them is almost deafening, and Gerry's grip has become bruising. Jon's body's pulled taut like a violin string, and his head aches like it will split, as he tries to focus on Daisy's words. Right. The- fighting won't fix anything, especially when Jon has the sneaking suspicion that he has the upper hand in here.

"Right." Jon says.

"Right." Gerry repeats, squeezing his shoulder once before softening his grip. "Yes, Gertrude lied to me. Look at how she ended. Look at how _I_ ended. This is exactly what Elias wants, for you to be at each other's throat so he can go ahead with whatever it is he's planning."

"Don't think too much about it." Melanie mutters, and Jon feels a sudden wave of warmth for her, when she gives Gerry a worried frown.

"I'm not. Just... you don't have to like each other, or trust each other." Gerry trudges on. "But you _have_ to work together, and you have to _stop_ keeping secrets from each other. It's the only way."

It's... quiet, after his words.

Of course this would come from the man that gave so much for the cause that he ended up a shadow of himself

Eventually, Melanie scoffs, looking up at Gerry. " _Some_ secrets, please?"

Gerry snorts. "Okay. Some secrets, if you're _weak_." He takes Melanie's punch to the ribs without flinching. "What is this about?"

"A ritual, apparently," Daisy mutters, giving Basira another, subtler worried look.

Gerry nods. "And where is it happening?"

"Ny-Alesünd," Basira and Jon say at the same time, and the static comes back for the briefest of moments.

"...Well count me out of that particular road trip, I have things to do here." Melanie cracks her neck, shaking Gerry's hand off her head. "But I'll, you know, keep the fort safe. Keep an eye on Martin. Which reminds me, shouldn't someone tell Martin?"

Gerry lets out something between a groan and a sigh. "I'll do that. You need someone with good reflexes, with his new guard dog."

Jon closes his eyes, tapping lightly at the pool of Knowledge behind the cracked door in his mind, until he finds the particular thoughts he's looking for. "Tim is actually going to go get them some food in about ten minutes, so if you'd like to wait, you're welcome at my office."

"I'd like that." He can hear Gerry's smile in his voice, but even that doesn't prepare him for the sight of it aimed down at him when he opens his eyes again, and warmth coils at the bottom of his stomach like a pleased cat under the sun.

"I'm out." Melanie groans somewhere behind Gerry, and gives his side another punch before stomping away.

Jon darts a look at Basira and Daisy, who seem to be having a whispered conversation of their own, before he reaches to grab Gerry's hand and pull at him. He comes easily, like a smile after a kiss, and Jon leads them back to his office, where something primal and monstrous whispers 'safe' at the back of his mind.

"You can take a seat, if you want." Jon gestures to the chair before his desk.

"I don't think I do, actually." Gerry leans a forearm on the wall above Jon's head, and bends to rest his forehead against Jon's.

"Are you coming with us? Up north," Jon asks, trying to ignore how everything in him is yearning for Gerry's mouth like a sinner longs for absolution.

This is still new and unknown, but Jon's learned pretty fast that Gerry enjoys teasing him, leaning in just enough that they _could_ kiss if Jon pulled him down. Jon for his part, enjoys _not_ giving into that. It works about fifty percent of the time, but they always do end up kissing.

"I told you." Gerry whispers against him, close enough that Jon feels the silvery ring graze against his lower lip. "You're not going into any more entities without me. Should've thought about your vacation plans before adopting a revenant."

Jon snorts, and leans up to plant a kiss on the corner of Gerry's lips. That's one lost battle, but he doesn't feel too bad. "I knew feeding you that one time was a bad idea."

Gerry kisses him back slowly, like he doesn't want to be done anytime soon, and Jon hooks an arm over the back of his neck to bring them closer together. Stopping a second apocalypse doesn't sound too bad or scary right now, not with Gerry in his arms and the promise of Martin in his mind.

"It's been ten minutes," Jon whispers, parting from the kiss slow and unwillingly, like waking up early in the morning. "Tim's gone now."

"Hm... I should go talk to Martin."

"You should." Jon exhales slowly, as Gerry pulls back from him. He's smiling, and Jon feels like he will burst, because this man that's suffered so much is happy to be here with him and he feels like he doesn't _deserve_ how relieved that makes him.

"I'll go tell your crush you all decided to play nice, then." A spark of something mischievous gleams in Gerry's eyes,almost as thrilling as the kiss itself, and Jon prepares a long-suffering sigh- "Should I give him one of these from you? Just in case he misses you." -which promptly catches in his throat and comes out in a flustered cough.

"Get out of here!" Jon pushes at his shoulder, and Gerry cackles in delight as he closes the office door behind him, leaving Jon alone, red-faced and juggling an armload of embarrassing and confusing thoughts.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! First off, thank you for all the comments on the last chapter!
> 
> Before I go on, I wanted to link some awesome art by amazing artists inspired by this fic, thank you!!  
> [Melanie and Gerry out for ice cream, by Flashhwing](https://flashhwing.tumblr.com/post/622816041465266176/they-do-end-up-going-back-but-melanie-makes-a)
> 
> [Some sweet smooches from last chapter, a very tired Gerry and a pair of dirt-caked best friends, by Littlerobinsart](https://littlerobinsart.tumblr.com/post/623495547091861505/drew-these-while-reading-the-new-chapter-of)
> 
> [Just Jon and Gerry being dumb and in love, by Elisajgolden](https://elisajgolden.tumblr.com/post/624365158429589504/today-i-offer-you-jongerry-tommorw-who)

**XIII**

"Do you want another one?" Gerry asks, running a hand over Jon's side and smiling when the man shivers lightly at the touch, but doesn't move from where he's laying with his head on Gerry's chest, his fingers playing with a fold in his shirt.

"I'm good, I think." Jon's voice is silky with contentment and it tastes of bliss and peace when Gerry leans up to press a kiss against the crown of his head. The bed is soft below them, and the only light in the semi-penumbra of the bedroom is the green glow of Jon's eyes. "How are you feeling?"

 _'At home,'_ Gerry thinks with a smile. It's a thrilling, dangerous thought to have, especially the night before they're supposed to go stop another ritual, but he gets the feeling that there's also no better time to have it. 

It's taken a week for Basira to arrange the trip north, and Gerry's elated to see his theory appears to have been correct. Jon has been feeding regularly, but his powers have not grown -or diminished- in the slightest. The Watcher cannot feed where there's no fear to be had, Gerry knows, can't take away from what is essentially an act of love.

"Bit excited," he says in the end, after he remembers Jon is waiting for an answer. "It's never a boring time, stopping rituals."

"Didn't work out too good for us, last time," Jon mutters, and his voice leaves an aftertaste of regret when it pours into Gerry's chest.

"Are you sure?" Gerry holds him a bit tighter. "Everyone made it out alive, in the end."

"Depends on your definition of 'alive', I suppose."

"Alive enough. Besides, you didn't have _me_ last time," Gerry says smugly, and Jon snorts, just like he expected.

"Someone has a high opinion of himself." The suggestion of laughter remains in his voice when Jon speaks; Gerry's almost embarrassed at the feeling of satisfaction it brings him. _Almost_.

"What can I say, I'm a professional." He almost freezes, when Jon's lips come to rest at the curve of his jaw. His amused smile softens as the lightest trail of kisses is placed along his jawline. "We'll be fine. All of us."

And really, his optimism has bit him in the ass on more occasions than he can count, but Gerry still can't help but to listen to it. It's gotta stick, one of these times.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

The door to Martin's office is ajar next morning, when Gerry walks up to it, which probably -hopefully- means Tim just left.

It's- fine, so yes, Martin _has_ been looking much better since he came back, even when Tim seldom visits the institute; Gerry can hardly deny that. It _definitely_ doesn't mean he has to like it. 

Tim is an unknown variant if he's ever seen one, and every time Gerry tries to Know about him all he can see is a storm of turbulent thoughts that range anywhere between guilt and rage. This is worrying for many reasons, the biggest of which is that Martin is still human, and any slip on Tim's part while he has his little identity crisis could be catastrophic.

Martin won't hear of it, though, and Gerry knows enough about him by now to recognize a lost battle, so... just one more thing he has to keep Martin safe from. 

"I still don't know what Peter's planning." And speaking of Martin, Gerry can see him through the cracked-open door, a round cheek resting on his hand as he absentmindedly runs a finger over the buttons of the tape recorder on his desk like one would pet a dog's belly. "My best guess is it has something to do with whatever it is that's under the Institute, but- who knows?"

The recorder clicks in agreement, and Gerry's mouth twitches in amusement at the soft smile that comes to Martin's plump lips as his gaze softens. 

"Okay, yes. Maybe you two _could_ know, but try not to force it? I can't imagine the Eye is too happy with us after we put Jon on a diet, and the last thing we need is Gerry bleeding out like a scared squid."

Oh.

Huh. It's a bit unexpected to hear Martin talk about them like a team. Jon will like that, Gerry thinks as the man taps at the recorder with a worried, thoughtful frown. Unexpected, but- but good.

Martin looks overwhelmingly _human_ , and though Gerry can See the tendrils of the Lonely wrapping around him, what catches his attention the most is the burning thought of _Jon_ at Martin's core, and he feels a fierce rush of protectiveness for this man whose biggest concern is for the well-being of the man they love. 

"Hopefully by the time you get back I'll have something more, just... be careful, alright? Both of you, and take care of Basira and-" the door creaks a little when Gerry shifts on his feet, and Martin's face shoots up in alarm. "Oh. Hi, Gerry." His face relaxes into a smile of resigned exasperation, when his bright, thankfully green gaze lands on him, and Gerry feels his stomach flip over itself.

"You look well," Gerry says, leaning against the threshold.

"I'm feeling well. It's-" Martin's brow furrows. "I miss it."

Gerry sighs. It really would be a lot easier to watch Martin waste away if Gerry still disliked him, like an idiot. "Please don't say that."

"It's better this way." Martin gives him a shrug and another smile, softer this time. Sadder somehow, because this is what Martin thinks of himself, even momentarily free of the Lonely's influence.

Guilt churns heavier in Gerry's stomach; he _should_ be pulling Martin out, he should, but if the Extinction is real, then whatever Lukas is planning might be their only shot at stopping it from manifesting, if it's even possible.

What a very Getrude thing to do, Gerry thinks bitterly, making bait out of a brave, good man that only ever wanted to protect his loved ones. Perhaps he _did_ learn a couple things from his old mentor, and the betrayal feels even worse in light of the promise he made Jon.

"Is that for me?" Gerry blurts out, jerking his chin towards the tape recorder, because he can't think of another thing to say that's not an apology at how their lives have turned out. 

"It is, actually. I was going to send it with Tim, but you were faster."

Gerry feels a satisfied smirk take over his lips, before the rest of Martin's sentence catches up with him. "Wait. 'Send it' with Tim?"

"Huh... I was-" Martin bites at his bottom lip, clearly uncomfortable, and Gerry, who isn't stupid by any means, feels a void opening at the bottom of his stomach. "I was hoping you could take Tim up north with you. Strength in numbers and all that."

"Martin, that only works when your numbers don't want to kill each other," Gerry tries. Maybe it's a bit selfish, he knows himself enough to know that stopping the ritual will be the last thing in his mind if he has to focus on keeping Jon safe from-

"Tim's not going to hurt Jon." Martin's smile has _no business_ being as knowing as it is. "It would make me feel a lot better to have him there with you all."

"Martin, it really isn't smart to- I don't like Tim, but he can protect you if-"

"Protect me from what?" Martin rolls his eyes. "You're going to be fighting the apocalypse. Again. We'll be fine. In fact, Peter will probably be happy that I'm alone and let me work for a change."

"Martin-" Gerry tries again, then stops, sighing. Martin's mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but almost there. "Fine. But Jon won't like it. And for the record, I don't care much for it, either."

And Martin does smile then, both amused and satisfied. "Duly noted."

Gerry's enough of a man to acknowledge he's been had, but it doesn't mean he has to like it.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

It's a fourteen day travel to Ny-alesund, and Tim wants to throw himself overboard by the second morning.

He keeps reminding himself that he's doing this for Martin, because Martin is the only one that really matters anymore, the only friend he has left, the only connection to a time when they were happy, even if none of them is anymore.

Jon, as usual, makes everything worse.

They run into each other a few times, before Tim begins actively avoiding him.

It's just too much, how whenever their gazes meet, whoever- _whatever_ Tim is now roars like a delighted beast, sinking its fangs in the raw loss in Jon's eyes. The burning pain of grieving is a banquet to him, especially when something angry and hot at the back of his mind whispers Jon will drag this delicious pain with him forever, because the Tim that exists now will never be the Tim he grieves for. 

It's a troubling thought, almost enough to distract Tim from the mirroring pain that comes from inside his own chest, and that his entity feeds on just as eagerly, or the fact that he does not know if he too is mourning for the man he was before he lost his brother, or for the man he hasn't been able to call a friend in years. 

"You watch them a lot," Basira comments somewhere around the four days mark, and Tim lets out a huff of steam before stomping away.

Of course he fucking does. Tim boils with indignation on Martin's behalf every time he sees the git leaning against Keay's side, holding his hand and peacefully watching the water rush by below them like they are on a fucking honeymoon cruise. It's just not fair, not when Martin -when Tim gets him to speak- still talks about Jon like he's some sort of... of reason. Not when he talks about Keay -and he calls him Gerry, but Tim _staunchly_ refuses to do so- with this sort of... resigned exasperation, like he knows the man will be there whether he wants it or not.

It's infuriating, to see that some things don't change, that Martin is still letting Jon -and apparently this new asshole as well- walk all over him, that Jon _still_ doesn't realize how undeserving he is of this devotion. 

That Tim is _once more_ going along with this bullshit, and that he can lie to himself all he wants about doing it for someone he loves, but it doesn't erase the fact that Tim was thrusted back into a world he had every intention of leaving, and now he has no place in.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

"He says another two days," Jon says consolingly, and Basira refuses the urge to shake him as another, stronger wave of nausea has her bending over the railing to dry heave again. First off, he's trying to be helpful, and second, getting into a fistfight with Gerard will definitely not help her condition. Fucking boats.

Still, she looks up to give Jon a dry glare. "I heard- Jon?" she arches an eyebrow, when she recognizes the look on his face.

He's still like a hound sniffing prey, and his unblinking eyes are fixed on the sailor he just talked to. Behind him, Gerard leans over to give him a questioning look. "Jon? What is-"

And then Basira Sees it.

Every step the sailor takes away from them lighting up with a glowing trail, as well as every single step he's taken in the past twelve days. Basira knows she could follow them back to his cabin, to his preferred seat on the mess hall, to wherever the man tries to hide, and she Knows what that means.

"The- he has a statement," she breathes out, and the nausea is gone so quickly that she wonders if she ever felt it in the first place.

"Jon don't-" out the corner of her eye she sees Gerard call out and reach a hand for Jon as soon as he takes a step forward, but the man's arm cramps and stills before he can touch him, and twin streams of black ink start a slow run down from his nostrils.

Basira knows she should call out herself, try and stop Jon, since Gerard can't. 

Would that really be the best idea, though? Jon feels called to this man, and she can hear the whirring of the tape recorder that just clicked on in her satchel, that surely means whatever this man has to say is relevant to stopping the Dark's ritual. It's... still not ideal, but if it keeps the world from ending...

"Excuse me?" Jon asks, and the man turns to him again. There's a slight scowl on his face, confusion shining through in his eyes, and Basira notices the exact moment he realizes Jon is not just a persistent traveler wanting to inquire if they can go any faster.

"I- do you need anything else?" the man asks, his sun-tanned face losing every scrap of color and his entire posture growing tense with anticipation. Across from him, Jon suddenly stiffens too. 

There's a long moment of silence, and Basira frowns as she sees Jon's frame begin to tremble like a leaf in the wind. 

"Nothing-" Jon says, his voice sounding like it's been punched out of him, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. "I would- you may want to consider staying away." Every word sounds like a battle, and Basira can read the struggle in each pained flinch of Jon's back and shoulders. 

The man doesn't respond, turning around instead to fly down the deck and downstairs as soon as he can, without a single look back. It doesn't matter; she can find him, she'll find him for the Archive, for-

"What's going on here?" Tim's voice burns away at the Eye's poisonous whispers, and Basira shakes her head to clear it.

"We- I- there was a man with a statement," she says, her thoughts coming in slowly as though having to wrestle their way to her lips.Tim's face hardens, and he takes a step towards Jon, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder to turn him around.

"What did you- shit!" Tim lets go of his shoulder with a yelp, and Basira gasps when she gets a good look at him.

His eyes are their usual dark brown, but Jon's face is pale and pained, and his lower lip bleeds profusely where he bit himself, if one is to judge on the smear of red on his teeth when he lets out a low, tired whistle. 

"The Eye didn't particularly like that I said no," he says conversationally. 

Basira closes her eyes with a relieved sigh, when she hears Gerard give a weak snort by her side. She's thinking more clearly now that the man is gone, and though her nausea is back on full force, she feels a sudden, unexpected rush of pride for Jon. "That's- good." It really is. If even _he_ can say no, then maybe she can too, no matter how taken she is. "You should- you both should go get cleaned up."

"That's probably a good idea," Jon agrees. He looks exhausted and ridiculously pleased with himself, and Basira remembers, quite abruptly, that _Jon didn't choose this_. She remembers the secretive meetings with the desperate man who _needed_ to know because he _feared_ for his life, and the sincere gratitude in his tired eyes whenever she showed up with a new tape. "We'll see you at supper. Feel better, Basira."

He walks away on unsteady feet, leaning on Gerard as soon as he comes up to him, and Basira watches them go in silence. 

_'Despite my best efforts, you never did bond.'_ Elias' stupid, infuriating voice echoes in her mind, and she grits her teeth together. They would have, Basira decides, and that is the worst part. 

Without the fear, without the lies, without Elias pulling their strings to move them across his little chess board, they would have found at least companionship in each other. Now they're all just too broken and tired, only fit to struggle enough to keep their heads above the water in this storm with no end in sight.

"...You doing alright?" Tim asks, his voice tentative, the gentleness awkward in his tone. Basira wonders if he's as defined by his violence now as he was in the months before his death. 

"Seasickness," she says curtly, without looking at him. She still remembers the handsome, roguish smile when he thought she and Jon were having an affair, and she has the sudden thought that she doesn't know which of the two Tims was the real one. "...Did Martin really ask you to come, or did you come just to keep an eye on him and kill him if he slipped?"

She doesn't know if she'd stop him if that were the case, just as she couldn't stop Jon just a few minutes ago. Tim shrugs, and when Basira darts a quick look up at him, he's averted his eyes, clearly uncomfortable.

"You know. Two birds, one stone kinda thing," he responds, but Basira was trained to smell lies even before the Beholding came into her life, and she sees uncertainty in the unhappy curve of his lips, anxiety in the stiff line of his spine. It's comforting to know she's not the only one conflicted by her feelings about Jon. "Want me to get you some Ginger Ale?"

"Sure. And a plastic bag, for when I puke it out." Basira's voice is dry, and Tim snorts as he walks away.

Just two more days.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Martin clicks the file shut, and pushes away from the computer with a satisfied sigh.

Across the desk, Melanie lifts her gaze from her phone's screen. "All done?"

"Won't be running out of pens and notepads anytime soon." Martin nods, rolling his shoulders to get rid of the tension in them. "Thanks for staying."

He means it. Even though Melanie barely spoke a word the whole evening, her sporadic snorts and the subsequent memes shown to him on her phone kept Martin remembering he wasn't alone in the office. He appreciates the quiet company, most of all because a part of him -the part that wants to wither and disappear back into the comfortable numbness- resents it.

Melanie shrugs. "Sure. They sent a text, by the way, did you get it? They'll be on land tomorrow."

"I saw," Martin lies. He received the text last night at his flat, that's gone back to grey and foggy without Tim or Gerry's presence. The thought of opening it had been repulsive. "I wonder why they chose to go by boat?"

"Beats me. I'll ask Helen to pop over and ask if they want to come back through her. It really doesn't make much sense to go the long way when we have her."

Martin smiles. "Not everyone has the Distortion guiding them through her corridors when they want to go for Starbucks."

"Maybe they would, if they were nice to her." Melanie rolls her eyes, a slight smirk on her lips. "Going home for the weekend now?" 

"Yes, I think. I'll buy some groceries on the way. Is there anything you or Daisy need? I could bring it on Monday."

"We're good. Come on the weekend if you feel- you know. We'll leave the back door open." She stands up and waves at him before leaving, closing the door behind her.

The whistling, nerve-wracking static begins to rise as soon as her footsteps fade. "Isn't that charming. She's looking particularly calm, for someone picked by the Slaughter."

Martin clenches a fist over his lap, as Peter steps out of the Lonely. "She's doing well. It's nice to know you can push them out if you're not too far gone."

"But you already knew that, didn't you?" Peter's ice-blue eyes are hard and cold when Martin looks up to meet them. "This was not our deal, Martin."

"The situation has changed." Martin doesn't climb to his feet, trying instead to project a calm he doesn't feel.

Peter sneers. "You think because you have Daisy, Tim and that ridiculous reanimated corpse, your little ragtag band doesn't need my protection anymore?"

"I-" 

"Because if that's the case then Martin, I _beg_ you to wake up," Peter goes on, steamrolling over Martin's attempt to interject. "Daisy's in no state to keep anyone safe, even with her little stunt with the contract. Tim? That man is a time bomb if I've ever seen one. And let's not fool ourselves, please. Gerard Keay is here for the Archivist only, he couldn't care less about anyone else."

"You don't-"

"But of course, as I said, this must be your own choice. I will be happy to stand back, if you think your little team can take on the flood I've been keeping back." Peter crosses his arms behind his back with a jovial smile, and Martin watches him carefully.

It's difficult to really know how much Peter is guarding them from. But they haven't had another break in since Breekon, so he _must_ be doing something. Besides, Gerry and Jon need him to keep digging into the Extinction, and Peter won't give him any more information unless he has him on his side. 

Martin takes a deep sigh that tastes of suffocating, damp loneliness, and nods. "I- fine. I'll keep my end of the deal."

Peter's smile turns pleased, though no less dangerous for it. "Fantastic! I was thinking, since your 'friends' left on their little trip… you look like you could use a holiday too."

"What-" Martin frowns, only to turn around in alarm, when the office around them starts to dissolve into cool, empty fog. "Peter?!"

"Have a nice weekend, Martin." The smile is still audible in Peter's voice, echoing and distorted around Martin as the Lonely closes in on him.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

They really don't need the instructions the research team gave them, in the end. With three Eye-aligned people, the warehouse is ridiculously easy to find. It pulls at them like a darkness you can't peer through, like a smudge in your vision that you just can't get rid of.

"So it's empty?" Basira asks when they step inside. Gerry quietly moves to stand before Jon, and her by extension. 

"I didn't say that. Just that I couldn't see anyone." Jon's eyes are glowing the bright green of the Archivist, as the Eye tries -and _fails_ , Gerry notes with bitter satisfaction- to fight the darkness back. 

"Oh. I thought you meant See see, not just... we need proper terminology." Basira does a sweep of the warehouse, her hands crossed at the wrist, gun on her right, light on her left as she pivots on her heel. The beam from the flashlight only illuminates about a foot and a half ahead of them, pitiful in this all-encompassing darkness that swallows it like quicksand.

"Sure, let's just work a secret code like in primary school. I'll write the key on the back of my notebook," Tim says dryly, his eyes glowing as brightly as Jon's. Gerry has started to understand that a lot of Tim's attempts at being irritating are genuinely just that; the boat would've burned to a crisp a week ago if he was actually as angry as he pretends to be. Gerry's also pretty sure Tim himself doesn't know this, but it's not like he cares enough to tell him. 

"Shut up," Basira rolls her eyes, and Gerry cheers for her silently. "I'm going to kill that lying son of a-"

"Elias wasn't lying," Jon interrupts. "It's- the Dark Sun, it's here. I can- it's like a hole in my mind."

"...Huh." Basira frowns, her features almost eerie in the shadows cast by the combined glow of Tim and Jon's eyes. "I... I feel it too."

Jon nods. "I think we just- _BEHIND YOU!_!

Gerry sees the shadow move just as Jon screams, and has barely enough time to throw himself against the woman coming at Basira's back. 

"Get off!" the woman screams, scratching at his face as Gerry tries to wrestle the weapon out of her hands. One of Tim's forearms tries to wrap itself around her neck, and she sinks her teeth down on it. 

Tim's screaming then, his entire forearm enveloped in flames, and the woman _still_ won't let go of the wooden bat with the hammered in nails. A gunshot rings out, leaving behind a silence so loud it's deafening, and the woman collapses in a heap at their feet, gasping and grunting in pain. 

"Who are you?!" Basira points at the woman with both weapon and flashlight, and she seems to recoil away from the light far more than she does from the muzzle of the gun, which is fairly indicative of _what_ she is, at least.

"Fuck you!" she spits back at Basira's feet. She tries to climb to her feet, but Basira shot her clean through the knee; avatar or not, she's not going anywhere in the next hour or so, at the very least. 

Gerry throws the bat away as Jon steps forward, the shadows dancing hypnotically across his face. Out the corner of his eye he sees Tim smoothing the wax of his forearm to get rid of her bite mark. 

" _Who are you_?" he asks in the voice of the Archivist, and the woman flinches. 

"M- Manuela," the woman says as if every word is being ripped out of her like an infected tooth. "Manuela Domínguez."

" _Are you alone here?_ " Jon asks again. " _Why are your people staking out the Institute?_ "

"Fu- how are you doing that?!" Manuela groans and spits, clawing at her throat like trying to stop the words from leaving her. Gerry has the brief, worryingly uninterested thought that he has no idea what happens when someone refuses to succumb to compulsion. Maybe he'll find out now. "I am alone. The ones at your precious Institute are the deserters, the traitors whose faith flaked after your Archivist ruined our dark rapture."

"I think you're a bit outdated with news," Basira remarks. "Gertrude is gone."

It really is something to hear people talk about it so dispassionately, Gerry thinks. Jon's eyes hone in on him, but he ignores them, focusing on Manuela instead. 

Manuela, for her part, is cackling with delight. "Stopping us took everything she had, then. Is this your new Archivist? He doesn't look like much."

"Did you ever _see_ Gertrude?" Gerry asks then, incredulous. Tim snorts, and both Basira and Jon shoot them unimpressed stares. Gerry shrugs, feeling his mouth twitch at Jon's pursed lips. This is definitely not what he expected when coming here, but he's not complaining. Much easier -and safer- to take down a lone avatar than an entire cult.

"What happened during your ritual?" Basira asks, and Manuela turns to her with a hateful glare. 

"Don't play coy. It was _her_ who-"

"Gertrude didn't do anything to stop your ritual. I don't even think she was preparing for it." Jon interrupts, giving Gerry another look to confirm. He shakes his head. The last months with Gertrude were focused on the Unknowing, he can't remember her even mentioning the Dark.

"But- that doesn't make any sense!" Manuela's voice is faint now, an almost hysterical quality to it, like the rug's been pulled under her feet. "She- why did we fail, then?!"

"I don't know," Jon shrugs, and his eyes flare up like searchlights, almost enough to push the darkness away. "But you're going to _tell us your story_."

Gerry doesn't get to find out what happens when someone refuses the compulsion, which is probably good, in hindsight. However, the tale Manuela tells is perplexing, and Gerry finds himself repeating her question to himself.

Why _did_ they fail?

If Gertrude didn't plan or attempt anything, if they sacrificed their beast, if the eclipse came... why did it not succeed? Jon and Basira's furrowed brows let him know he's not the only one thinking along those lines, but Gerry feels the pressure of the Eye pushing him back from the thought, so he files it for later. Maybe Martin will be able to make heads or tails of it. 

"And it's still here?" It's Tim who asks this time, but Manuela doesn't even wait for Jon to repeat the question. Defeat has settled over her shoulders like a cloak, and she nods softly.

"It's my only remaining mission, to guard it. But if you've come to destroy it... then I guess my patron has really abandoned me."

"Sad." Basira turns to Jon. "Ask her how we can destroy it."

"No need. I know how to." Jon looks at the fallen woman, his gaze troubled. "You- go. Just- go away."

Basira frowns. "Jon?" 

"She's done," Jon shrugs, but he seems to gain more confidence with each word. "Just leave, and tell your congregation to stay away from us; or we will destroy you, like we did with the Stranger."

Gerry feels his eyebrows climb up his forehead, impressed -and delighted- at the firm, steady threat. Jon is not one to brag about his power, but... confidence is a good look on him, Gerry decides. 

Manuela doesn't respond, merely climbing to her feet with a pained groan. Being forced to feed the Eye can't have been good for her healing process, but the knee seems to be solid enough to do its work, as she steps out of the circle of light without a look to any of them.

"How are we going to destroy it then?" Basira gives Jon a questioning look.

"I have to See it," Jon says, and Gerry's mind floods with alarms. Knowing the Dark Sun sounds like a _great_ way to leave a mark.

"No you don't-" Gerry shoots forward, grabbing onto Jon's hand with bruising strength as soon as he takes a step towards the end of the warehouse. "You don't have to."

Jon's tired, sad eyes are apologetic when they focus on him. "Gerry-"

"Fear bingo card," Gerry blurts out the only thing in his mind, and Jon stiffens under his grasp.

"...Oh. That would- yes." Jon's hand shifts until he's squeezing back on Gerry's, the green in his eyes starting to fade. "It's okay. I won't do it, if you don't want me to."

Something hurts in Gerry's chest. It feels like the Beholding, so he can't help but suspect he just ruined something big. Which is great. The feeling also pales in comparison to the fluttering in his stomach. 

Jon's lopsided smiles were enthralling to watch before, when they were muted and he tried to hide them. Now he's smiling directly at Gerry, warm and reassuring and soft, and it's doing all sorts of funny things to-

"Safewords and all? Very healthy, kudos to you two." Tim's sardonic voice pours over them like a pail of cold water, and Jon's little smile evaporates like mist under harsh sunlight. 

"Wow, you really do have to be an asshole about everything, huh?" Gerry whips around to face Tim where he's standing at the edge of their little island of light. His eyes are glowing like the banked embers of a forgotten campfire, just waiting for a stray breeze to set everything ablaze.

"What can I say, I just like to be part of important moments."

"Not everyone is going to be as tolerant to your bullshit as Jon, St-"

"I'm going to shoot both of you if you don't shut up," Basira interrupts. "Probably won't kill you, but it'll hurt. Test me."

"Don't test her, she'll do it," Jon mumbles somewhere behind Gerry, who has known Basira would have no problem putting a bullet in him since the first day he opened his eyes in the land of the living again. "Gerry," Jon adds, a slightly pleading hint to his voice, and Gerry knows he's lost.

He narrows his eyes at Tim's infuriating smirk, before turning his back to him and returning to Jon's side. The asshole makes a couple kissy noises, but Gerry finds that rearranging Tim's face is much less interesting than the flush on Jon's face as he shakes his head in exasperation. 

Gerry grazes a knuckle against Jon's cheekbone, and Jon goes red to the roots of his hair. "We'll just find another way to destroy it."

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Tim rolls his eyes at the display.

It's _very_ irritating, to see Jon comply with the request so easily, when Tim remembers with nauseating clarity how stubborn the man can be.

Anything for a pretty face and a cup of good tea, he guesses.

Keay turns to face the back of the warehouse then, and Tim catches the flurry of movement as soon as he takes a couple steps away from Jon. 

It's all a bit of a blur. 

He can barely see the outline of Manuela's silhouette, the darkness hugging tightly around her, and the wretched-looking bat they wrestled away from her earlier.

The sound of wood against flesh is disturbingly clear in the empty silence of the warehouse, startling in contrast with how Jon collapses without a noise.

He hears Basira's gun go off again, but Tim -or rather, his _fire_ \- reaches the woman faster. 

She screeches in pain as flames engulf her, and every step she takes leaves behind a flaming trail, but Tim is not looking at her. 

Key's screaming at Basira to get out; he's got Jon gathered up in his arms, and Jon's head lolls back like a broken doll, his eyes -or what remains of them- bleeding down his forehead. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck- each and every one of Tim's hurried gasps for breath is like feeding oxygen into a dying fire-

The warehouse burns.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

To say Jon wakes up in a dark place would be a bit like saying the sky is big and far away, like trying to describe something that _is_ merely in terms of how humans perceive it, when its existence has little -if anything- to do with the human experience.

This place is dark not in the sense that it lacks light, but rather in the sense that the concept of light has never _existed_ here in the first place. 

In any case, even the memory of light is of little use to Jon, because he knows without the slightest shadow of a doubt, that he cannot See.

It's similar to how he felt in the Buried, his senses all heightened at the loss of his Sight, and the thought that in this place at least, he is human. Or at least as much human as there is left of him, after the Beholding sank its teeth so deep into his being.

Jon gets the feeling it's not too much. 

He tries to wave his hand before his face, but only succeeds in feeling the slight disturbance of air before his nose. The black around him is almost suffocating and with it comes the knowledge that, without his eyes, Jon will never find the way out. There's no Daisy with him this time, to feed him a statement in equal parts barbed and sweet that will grant him just enough power to climb out.

"Is there anyone there?" Jon calls out, and the Dark seems to swallow his voice as voraciously as everything else. Stupid question, he thinks as he feels the first pangs of dear prickle down the back of his neck.

There is no one there, but there is _something_ there. 

He knows it without needing to Know it, the same way humans through their entire existence have always _known_ the night is dangerous, and that the creatures that lurk in the corners where the light cannot reach are waiting, always waiting for the moment they lower their guard just a little too much.

There's a shuffle to his left, and what sounds like claws, like a hiss, like too many skittering feet. 

"Stay back!" Jon turns to face the sound, or he thinks he does. It's difficult to know if he moved at all, in this place of absence. The noise repeats, from behind him this time, and Jon whips around again.

He was- he's not alone. He's lost, yes, but he wasn't abandoned, he just has to find the way back.

 _'Back where?'_ he thinks, and he flinches with a scream as the _thing_ in the dark brushes against his side. 

"C- calm down, Jon," he tries to tell himself. He just needs to go back home, where it's safe, where there's light. Is light only something he imagined? Is home?

No.

Home is... home is a place that exists. 

The creature in the Dark snarls angrily, and Jon fights to control his breathing, as he desperately clings to that one thought.

Home smells of lavender. Home is a bed that's just barely big enough, and a sofa that isn't at all. Home is a place to talk of the future, and feel fear that is not fear, because you _want_ to face it. Home is a pair of strong arms, and the scent of freshly brewed coff-

"-aid he remembered what- what his wife told him before he turned off the lights at the living room. She- she reminded him to set the alarm, because they would be having breakfast with-"

The voice echoes all around him like a desperate prayer, and Jon hears the creature growl again. Something prickles at Jon's eyes, like the itch below a scab that'll drive you mad until you tear it out. He rubs at them, and spots of color explode behind his closed eyelids.

"-rents next morning, and- and he said he remembered the way then, Jon, because he wanted- you were right, alright? It was the _fucking_ quiche, he just-" Gerry's voice grows more and more desperate as Jon keeps blinking and rubbing, and the colors get brighter, and his eyes hurt, but the pressure on them releases. "He walked out, just like that. And he was at the top floor, with- with his wife, and he could see the light of his clock, and he knew she'd already set the alarm for him because she knew he'd forget- Jon, open your eyes _please_ -"

And Jon does.

Everything is blurry at first, as his healing continues to fix the damage Manuela caused. It's still dark, but not Dark, and off to his side Jon can see the sky is tinted an angry orange hue. His nose registers not the scent of lavender, but the smell of burnt wood, and he realizes Gerry's silhouette is backlit by a roaring fire enveloping the last home of the Dark Sun. 

"What-" Jon goes to ask. "Where's Manuela?"

"Tim dealt with her," Basira says, sitting on Jon's other side. "And the Sun as well."

The wounds on his face itch as they heal, the remaining scars just slightly raised dots that will flatten out soon enough, but that he Knows will leave a mark. Jon takes a hand up to his face, to feel at the bumps fanning from his eyes like stars.

"Is Tim-"

"In there," Gerry responds before he can even ask the question. "He'll be alright, it's- fire can't hurt him."

"I heard your voice," Jon says, because it feels important, to let Gerry know. He stiffens, and Jon lifts a hand to push a long lock of hair behind a pierced ear. "I followed it out. Like _quiche_." He smirks.

Gerry's face _crumbles_ , and he gives an aborted, hysterical laugh of relief, before roughly pulling Jon into a sitting position, and wrapping his arms around him.

"I- I'm back. I came back." Jon mumbles awkwardly. This is not at all what he expected, but... but it's not bad, he decides as Gerry gives a weak nod, his face buried in Jon's neck and his hands clenched tight in the back of Jon's shirt. "I'm home."

"You really are." With the roaring of the fire behind them, Gerry's strained voice is barely audible against Jon's skin, but there's no mistaking the way his arms tighten around him. "You are, Jon."

It's a strange thought, but home _can_ be a lot of things, he guesses. 

Even him, apparently.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! Before we go on with the chapter, check out [this amazing art inspired by last chapter made by Ivehadanapophany](https://littlerobinsart.tumblr.com/post/625581750423339008/some-jon-eye-gore-based-on-chapter-13-of-illico)
> 
> [I wrote a little piece to go with it, a reversal of the last scene in last chapter from Gerry's POV](https://that-one-girl-behind-you.tumblr.com/post/625744391713308672/a-reversal-of-the-last-scene-in-illicios-13th)
> 
> Oh, before I forget it, there's naked people in this chapter. No porn, but def some naked boyfriends. If that makes you uncomfortable, you can skip from the part where Jon suggests a bath to the next POV.

**XIV**

It's alright. It's okay, he- he can still make it out of here. Martin bats at the wisps of fog that come to curl around him; he can- someone will find him. 

Tim will notice he's not at his flat. If... if Tim comes back, of course. If he and Basira and Gerry and Jon didn't all get killed in this ritual. 

If Martin is not alone again. 

But he- he isn't, is he? Even... even if worst comes to worst, Daisy and Melanie are still at the Archives. They have to realize something is not right, they- they have to care, don't they? It's what Gerry said the week before they left. They- they're a team. They decided to be a team, whether they like it or not, so they- even if they don't care about Martin, they have to- 

The fog wraps tighter around him.

Who is he trying to fool? He's- he's been pushing them away for _months_. Why would they care about him, when all they have to go on is Jon's word that he's doing this for them? Melanie was clearly uncomfortable this evening -was it this evening? Is time the same here?-, probably only tolerating the awkward silence at Martin's office because Gerry asked her to keep an eye on him. 

And- and Gerry really is just looking out for him as a favor to Jon, isn't he? Jon, who has moved on, but feels guilty about leaving Martin behind, just like Tim, who is only really there because he has nowhere else to go.

It's- should he feel worse about that? Should he feel _any_ way about that?

Something pulls at him. The crackling of fire, and brewing coffee for someone he can't remember. The scent of lavender, and the feeling of exasperation that comes with it. The memory of a crooked smile. 

It all makes something churn in his stomach, and Martin shakes his head. The fog gets thicker and thicker the deeper he walks into it.

"Hm... you've made it quite far in. I'm impressed," comes a voice to his left, like a demon on his shoulder. "I must admit, I was worried those two fools might have held you back too much, but I shouldn't have. You really are a natural for this."

"What are you doing here, Peter?" Martin asks, itching to move away from the man and back into the blessed silence of the Lonely. 

Peter chuckles, clearly satisfied. Martin still can't see him through the fog, but just the thought of being addressed has him recoiling. "Well, loathe as I am to have to say this, I should pull you out before your guard dogs make it back to the Institute."

"I... don't think I want to go." Martin mutters almost to himself. The outside world, with all the color and the noise, with _people_ swarming around him... 

"You're not quite ready to stay. You could die here, Martin." Peter's pleased smile is audible in his voice.

"I don't think I would." This time Martin speaks with the utmost certainty.

"No, I don't think you would, either." Peter chuckles again. Martin focuses on the fog around him, tries to bend it to thicken enough to drown out Peter's presence. "Promising. I'm proud." The compliment comes through muted, as though Martin is hearing it from far away. 

It's better, but not enough. 

"I don't care." Martin can feel the Lonely thinning around him as the real world solidifies, and he clings desperately to the last of it. He can't go back. He doesn't want to go back to a world where he's nothing, no matter how hard he tries. Where he's pitied for not being enough to be loved. "Peter-"

"Bring it back, then." Peter says, almost too sharply; Martin flinches back in the empty office. There is no fog to hide in anymore, and the man's ice-cold stare is much too focused on him. "If you want it, call it back."

Objectively, Martin knows he shouldn't. 

If what Peter said is true, the others will be back soon. Tim will... will Tim worry about him? Will Gerry? Jon has already given up on him, because he asked.

Because Martin wasn't worth fighting for. 

The corners of the office start blurring again, but it's not _enough_. It's not enough, and Martin won't be able to hide from Gerry when he comes to get more information, or from Tim when he tries to force a conversation because he thinks the fact that they were almost friends once means something still.

"It's decent, I suppose. You'll have to work a little harder to make up for the lost time," Peter says, and chuckles again when Martin ignores him. "Remember our deal, Martin. We're almost there."

His voice fades in a whistle of static, and Martin looks up in time to watch, boiling with envy, as the last of the fog evaporates after taking the man away.

\----------------------------------------------

"I need your rib," Tim says as soon as he barges through the door of Jon's office. 

"Yes, for sure, Tim," Jon nods absentmindedly, lost in the steady trickle of Knowledge about a specific statement giver. He starts pulling the desk drawer open when the situation registers in his mind, and he looks up. "Wait- how do you know I have- why do you want my rib?"

"Melanie mentioned it. Also, I'm going to kill you." Tim shrugs.

Jon blinks. "I'm sorry, what?" 

"It's 'symbolic' apparently," Tim marks the quotes with his fingers and Jon knows exactly what he thinks of the whole thing without having to peek into his thoughts. "I need closure, and I'm very aware if I kill you for real either Daisy or your boyfriend are going to kill me, and Martin will, I don't know, give me a very strong look of disappointment."

"So you're going to... kill my rib?"

"Listen, I told Melanie I was willing to risk your bodyguards but she doesn't think I can take any of them. Real blow to my self-esteem, by the way." Tim crosses his arms over his chest, and Jon holds back his snort. It probably wouldn't be too well received. 

"I can imagine." He looks down at the open drawer. He remembers the feeling of Hopworth's big, meaty hand tearing at his insides, tugging the bone free with a well practiced move. Tim deserves it. Tim deserves so much more, for what he's had to give up. And if the only thing he's asking for is this- "you can have it, then."

"...Huh. I can?" Tim asks, and Jon Knows a lot of details all of a sudden. Tim is surprised. Tim is relieved. Tim is nervous. Tim is afraid. Tim never thought of a world in which Jon no longer holds any hope of being forgiven, whether Tim wants to forgive or not. "Good. Good then I'll-"

"I don't expect anything, Tim." Jon interrupts. "I- a lot happened. And I didn't act as I should have, I know. We were- you deserved better than what you got for me." He offers the rib on his outstretched hand, the stark white of the bone even more startling against his skin. "Go- go kill me."

It's as if time stops between them for a moment, and Jon wonders if any of them is actually breathing. Tim's messy thoughts and feelings reach him like darts, stabbing quick and sharp through him, only to fade right away.

_Why? Jon. Hate. Familiar. Abandoned. Why? Hurt. Home. Alone. Betrayal. Hate. Why?_

Tim snatches the rib from Jon's hand, his fist so tight around the bone his knuckles match the color perfectly. He looks like he's going to say something for a moment -Jon can't Know what it is, because Tim himself isn't sure-, but in the end he just nods sharply at Jon, and slams the door behind him when he leaves.

\----------------------------------------------

"-just wish Peter would spend less time trying to convince me his new power is real, and more time telling me what he plans to _do_ about it." The voice comes through the cracked door, and Gerry smiles, amused. He can practically see Martin rolling his eyes, like Peter Lukas' biggest crime was his lack of efficiency. Which might be true, at least in the eyes of someone as ruthlessly capable as Martin. "And where I fit in. He keeps saying I'm necessary because of my 'affiliation with the eye', but at this point I don't know if there's any of that left. Any of _me_ left."

Rather than there being something in his tone, it's the utter lack of emotion in that last statement that has Gerry knocking on the door. "Martin?" he calls out, and the silence that follows is unnerving. "Martin, I'm coming i-"

"Don't." Martin says, his voice far too close, far too quiet, and far too muted for Gerry's taste. "Go away."

Oh. 

Well, that's the shortest Martin's ever been with him, even counting back when they weren't working together. Gerry feels the nerves and the fear congealing into something cold and viscous at the bottom of his stomach. 

"Martin, I think we need to have a chat." He tries again. "I could tell you about what happened up North and-"

"I don't want to know." Martin cuts him again. "Just leave me alone, will you?"

"I won't, actually," Gerry says as firmly as he can. His hand curls into a fist by his side, his entire body tensing. This is- Martin probably won't be too happy with him for forcing it but the thought of the sad, tired grey eyes behind the glasses has Gerry's stomach churning with the need to _protect_. "If you want me gone so much, at least have the decency to say it to my face."

And really, Gerry should _really_ know better than to underestimate an angry Martin by now; he flinches back when the door flies open without any warning.

"It's not that hard, just _leave. Me. Alone._ " Martin snaps, and the sight of him makes Gerry's stomach drop. There's streaks of gray in his hair, and neither emotion nor color left in the eyes pinning Gerry down. "You have to stop meddling in my business."

Gerry takes a deep breath, before squaring his shoulders. "You know I'm just trying to hel-"

"Well, I _don't_ want your help. We're not- we're _nothing_ , Gerard. I don't care about whatever promise you made to Jon-"

"This is _not_ about Jon-"

"Yes it is!" Martin's eyes harden. "And guess what? You won, you have him. Now leave me _alone_."

For a split second, Gerry thinks Martin actually tried to shove him, until he looks down and sees the tape that's been slammed against his chest, just as Martin lets go of it. "Martin-"

"Leave."

"I-"

"I believe my assistant has asked you to go." The new voice that comes from somewhere behind Martin has Gerry gritting his teeth together, and it's all he can do to slip the tape into his pocket before Peter Lukas' face pokes out over Martin's shoulder. "But if you insist on staying, I could always... move him to a place where you won't disturb him."

Gerry narrows his eyes, his fingers itching to wrap themselves around Lukas' throat. He doesn't miss the hopeful flash in Martin's eyes when the Lonely is mentioned, and it makes his chest ache. He can't be this far gone already, he _can't_ be craving for the Lonely, he- he was fine just before they left. Gerry should've insisted in leaving Tim behind, they would've found another way to destroy the Dark Sun, and Martin would be-

"What will it be, then?" Lukas gives him a jovial smile that makes Gerry want to knock out all his teeth. "Either you go, or we do. Your choice."

"...I'll go," Gerry says after a moment. "Lukas?"

"Yes?" The man's eyes crinkle at the corner; Gerry wants to gouge them out.

"Gertrude only cared for stopping your pathetic attempt at a ritual. After that, you weren't even important enough for her to kill you." Gerry cracks his neck to the side. "But I'm not Gertrude."

"Is that a threat?" Lukas doesn't sound nowhere near amused anymore, Gerry notices. "If so, you have inflated opinions of your role in this game, Keay. You're _nothing_ but a chewtoy the Eye regurgitated for the Archivist, and you'd do well to remember that."

"Yes, I am." Gerry arches an eyebrow. "That's exactly why you won't touch me, isn't it? What makes you think you can touch _him_?"

Lukas laughs. "If you mean to imply I'm scared of that bad caricature of an avatar-"

"I'm not implying anything. It's a warning." Gerry takes a step back. "And if he doesn't come for you, I will."

He leaves immediately after, because when he levels a last look at Martin, he catches a single fleck of green in his sad, sweet eyes.

It's somehow as hopeful as it is devastating, having to leave him behind when deep down, Martin still _wants_ to be saved.

\----------------------------------------------

_'Jonathan Sims. Head Archivist.'_

Georgie gives the plaque a disgusted look. A tasteless joke. A heartless sentence. She shakes her head to clear the thought away, before knocking on the door.

There's a moment of silence, before Jon's voice -soft and confused, Georgie thinks with a pang of guilt- calls out. "G- come in?"

She pushes the door open, and walks into a sparsely decorated office. Bookshelves stocked with boxes of old paper and tape recorders cover the walls, and Jon sits behind a too imposing desk, looking smaller than he has any right to be on account of the hopeful, nervous expression on his face.

"Uhm. Hi, Jon." Georgie leans against the door to close it, before it occurs to her that maybe Jon doesn't want her to stay for long. She wouldn't, if she was him.

"I- what are you doing here?" Jon asks, climbing to his feet. He gestures to one of the chairs across from him with a shaky hand. "Is everything alright? I- take a seat?"

Georgie shakes her head, but she does walk towards the desk. Around it, when she gets close enough. "I came to pick up Melanie for- I'm taking her somewhere. But I wanted to talk to you. She said you were on a trip?"

"Yes, I- we were supposed to stop another ritual. It- it turned out to be a fluke, but we did destroy the Dark Sun, or rather Tim did and-" Jon stops stalking abruptly, and he averts his eyes with a pained sigh. "I'm sorry. You don't want to hear any of that."

"I really don't." Georgie gives a sigh of her own. "But it's been brought to my attention that these things don't really give you a choice, do they?"

Jon shakes his head. "You don't have to get involved, Georgie. It's- in fact, I'd prefer it if you didn't. I already put you at risk when I hid in your house, I wasn't even thinking-"

"You were scared. That's- it was sweet that you knew I'd take you in. Even after, you know, everything."

"It was selfish. But you don't have to mix with this anymore. You can stay away, and be safe." Jon's shoulders are tense and sagging, and Georgie itches to pull him into a hug. She muses, again, that Jon is extremely easy to love. It's what makes him so dangerous. 

"I really can't." Georgie shrugs. "Not while Melanie's trapped here. And you."

"Me." Jon repeats; tired, disbelieving.

"You." Georgie nods. "Weren't you trying to save the world?" she gives him a soft, sad smile. What was the cost of that?

"I-" Jon chuckles once. "I was. Am. But I don't- I think more focused on... on saving _us_ , now. The people I care about." He sighs again, runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even further. "I'll find something for Melanie. To- to set her free. If you two could go somewhere safe-"

" _Is there_ anywhere safe, Jon?" she asks, and Jon's shoulders fall even more.

"I don't think there is, Georgie." He says her name like she's the answer, like she can somehow make things alright. It reminds her of when they were younger, and she fell in love with that devotion. "I'm sorry."

Georgie purses her lips. "I don't think it was your fault." Jon's face shoots up at that, and Georgie feels guilt biting at her stomach again. She- she _knows_ Jon. Self-destructive tendencies or not, how could she ever think he chose this? Her Jon, who only ever wanted to be _enough_. Who she could never convince that he already was. "If you- you say you're looking for something to get Melanie out."

"I am. I don't- maybe it's not possible, or my... predecessor, would have found it. But I'm looking, Georgie, I _prom_ -" he stops talking abruptly, when Georgie pulls him into a tight hug, tucking his head under her chin. He melts against her, both so used to the other's touch that fitting together is almost as natural as breathing, even after all these years. 

"Don't stop with her." Georgie mutters into his hair. "I want you out too, Jon. You deserve to be out, _please_ believe that."

Jon says nothing after that, and neither does her. She holds his shaming form in silence, glad to be a momentary respite of this world that won't allow him any rest.

\----------------------------------------------

To Jon's credit, he notices Gerry's mood almost as soon as they walk out of the Institute.

It still takes him all the way to the flat before he says anything, but the intention was there, Gerry thinks, the spark of fondness for the man almost enough to drown out the despair in his chest. 

"Did- what happened?" Jon asks finally, after he locks the door behind the two of them. 

Gerry sighs, hanging his jacket on the hook before turning to see if Jon needs help with his coat. It seems like a good day for his hand, because he's already done with most of the buttons. "I- Martin gave me a new tape. But it's- I'm having a hard time getting him back."

"Ah..." Jon's face falls as he shrugs the coat off to hang it next to Gerry's jacket. "I- do you think I should try talking to him?"

Gerry flinches. He's fairly sure Martin planned what to say in order to get him to leave as soon as possible, but it still _hurt_. He doesn't want to even think of what sort of things Martin would say to drive Jon away, or how much of that Jon would take to heart. 

"I don't- I'll keep trying. Between me and Tim, he has to come back at some point."

He _has_ to. Otherwise he's just another person Gerry couldn't save, a gamble he took -and lost- on someone's _life_.

"You... you said it yourself." Jon mutters. His voice sounds as defeated as Gerry feels, thinking of Martin's faded gray eyes. "You can't stop him from aligning with the Lonely. We have to trust him."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it." Gerry sighs again, running a hand down his face. "I just… he deserves more."

"He does," Jon agrees, nodding softly. "I- would you like me to draw you a bath?"

It takes a couple minutes for the offer to actually register in Gerry's mind, and he blinks. 

"I- what?"

"It makes me feel better." Jon says, his scowl nowhere near fierce enough for Gerry to ignore his flushed face.

"I'm- that sounds nice." Gerry chuckles a little, still taken aback by the suggestion.

Jon rolls his eyes, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. "You don't have to _laugh_ about it."

"I'm not, it's just- no one's ever offered to do that before." Who would have, really? His mother? The one-night stands Gerry took whenever he wasn't hunting books or trying to ignore his mother's ghost? _Gertrude_? The last thought has another burst of hysterical laughter bubbling past his lips. If anything, it's almost enough to distract him from the disastrous encounter at Martin's office. "Will you get in with me?"

Jon's face closes off a little, even as his cheeks darken a bit more. "I'm- if you want me to."

"I think I'd like that. Just... just for a bath," he clarifies, because he's not stupid; he's noticed Jon keeps his touch chaste, even when they get worked up when kissing. "If it doesn't make you uncomfortable."

"Just for a bath." Jon nods carefully after a moment. "I'll just- go and start with the coffee for after. I'll call you."

Gerry makes himself scarce at the clear dismissal, busying himself with the cheap coffeemaker and the mugs.

_'You won, you have him.'_ Martin's voice echoes around in his head, much more spiteful and accusing than the real delivery was. 

This is... it's not fair, that he and Jon get to have these moments, while Martin loses himself to the Lonely. It's not fair to repay the man's bravery by forsaking him. He should've challenged Lukas, he knows. He should've stayed there, clung to Martin and dragged him out if need be instead of turning his back on him like a coward, instead of letting Martin watch him walk away, and leave him at Lukas' mercy. 

"Hey." Smooth burnt skin slips over his as Jon's hand wraps stiffly around his wrist, and Gerry looks down into Jon's sweet concerned eyes. The coffeemaker beeps softly, has probably been doing so for a while, but Gerry can't find it in himself to do anything about it, and Jon doesn't seem to care. 

There's not much else to say that they didn't go over at the door before, so Gerry says nothing, and instead lets himself be guided away by the gentle, firm grip of Jon's hand on his. 

The bathroom is warm and full of steam with the bathtub only filled up halfway, which he supposes will be enough to keep it from overflowing once two grown men sit inside.

Gerry can, as always, feel Jon's eyes on him, but he finds that the feeling is entirely different when he's undressing. Burns and scars included, he's very aware he's an attractive man; he also _knows_ with delighted certainty that Jon finds him distracting. Still, the slight hitch in Jon's breath when his shirt comes off completely, revealing the line of open eyes descending down his spine, makes Gerry's stomach curl with satisfaction.

By the time he starts removing his trousers and pants, there's a featherlight graze of fingers against the eye beneath his shoulder blades, and Gerry stills. Other people have taken notice of his tattoos, of course, previous lovers, even, but there's something _different_ about Jon being the one running a fingertip lightly along the edges of the eyes. Maybe it's because Jon knows what they mean, or the knowledge that this body was remade, that it _exists_ because of Jon and Jon alone. 

Just a chewtoy for the Archivist, Lukas said earlier, like Gerry would find it hurtful or humiliating. Instead, when he turns around and Jon's adoring gaze moves from the eye over his heart to his own, real eyes, all Gerry can feel is relief, and the sticky, dangerously deceiving sensation of safety that comes with loving in a world preyed on by fear.

Jon looks away first, but he makes no attempt at covering himself as he turns to carefully climb into the bathtub, so Gerry looks his fill. Jon's body is slender, like his hands, like his face. Like a creature made for slipping between tightly cramped bookshelves and catching his victims unaware.

The body of a man life has mistreated.

Gerry eyes the thirteen marks resentfully; not all of them visible, but all glaringly obvious when he Looks. The Web at his fingertips, like dust left over after flipping a page. Spiral at his stomach, Slaughter on his shoulder, Flesh by his chest. Corruption takes what it can get, the small round marks scattered all over Jon's skin, interjecting here and there with the lines of intent where the Stranger planned to skin him.

The Vast, the Hunt and the Buried are all at his throat, the jagged lines of a scream let out while free falling, a cut meant to bleed him dry, a vicelike grip to drag him down. Desolation snakes up from his right hand, and End is a void over his heart. 

The Watcher and the Dark are both at his face, like one is mocking the other. _'I tried to destroy you'_ , say the star-like scars around his eyes. _'You weren't strong enough'_ , says the gleam of infinite knowledge behind them.

"Are you getting in?" Jon asks quietly, and Gerry notices those eyes are pinned to his, doubt and worry mixed in their dark, well-loved depths. Jon has curled by the head of the tub, his arms wrapped around two wet knees that break the surface of the water like twin islands at sea.

"...That's what one does, right?" Gerry's voice comes out hoarse, and he huffs a little laugh as warmth spreads over his skin under Jon's scrutiny.

Instead of sitting across Jon, Gerry faces away from him, Jon's knees parting almost on reflex to let him lay his back against him. Gerry rests a hand over the eye at his chest, and if he focuses enough, he can almost pretend Jon's heartbeat is his own. 

Maybe it is, he thinks as Jon's arms come to wrap over his shoulders.

It's a tight fit, but Jon's not a large man, and he slots behind Gerry like a backpack, which is admittedly not a very romantic way to describe sitting in a bathtub with your lover, Gerry thinks with a chuckle. Still, it's comfortable in a way Gerry has seldom experienced in his life.

The water's hot and soothing on his tense muscles, and when Jon reaches over to pop open a bottle, the bathroom fills with the scent of lavender. 

"Did you change shampoo brands?" Gerry asks, resting his head against Jon's chest and trying to ignore the soft yield of flesh where this perfect, beautiful _idiot_ is short two ribs. Above him, Jon continues softly scrubbing at his scalp, stubbornly quiet in that way Gerry has learned to read as him being embarrassed. "Jon?"

"I just-" Jon huffs, shifting behind him and making the water splash around the edges of the tub. "It was- you don't sleep on the sofa anymore."

Gerry scowls a little, trying to comprehend the mental gymnastics Jon is doing, until it clicks in his mind. "Oh." He can feel his face flushing in a way that has nothing to do with the heat of the water, as a pleased smile spreads over his lips. "That's- alright. I guess I can smell like a grandma. For you."

"You're insufferable." Jon flicks some water towards his face, and Gerry laughs, running his hand down Jon's calf where it cages his torso, and giving his ankle a squeeze. "I... thank you."

"For making fun of your perfume preferences?" Gerry closes his eyes as Jon starts rinsing the suds off his hair. He's going to fall asleep at this rate. Hopefully Jon won't let him drown.

"For not giving up on Martin." Jon whispers in his ear, his arms tangling together over Gerry's chest. "For caring."

Oh.

Gerry keeps his eyes closed. It's better this way. Jon's heartbeat is a steady lullaby under his head, and Gerry's suddenly assaulted by just how much he loves this man who cares that he's _trying_ , despite the fact that he's clearly not doing _enough_.

"I'll bring him back," Gerry whispers, the overwhelming rush of affection at war with the guilt that his happiness comes at the cost of Martin's suffering, somehow.

"We will." Jon nods, leaning over to press a kiss to the corner of Gerry's mouth. 

And well... perhaps it's a good thing, that Gerry's stupid, hopeless optimism seems to be rubbing off on Jon. Maybe they _will_ get Martin back.

Maybe this story doesn't have to end in tragedy.

\----------------------------------------------

It's not too late, when Jon sneaks out into the alley behind the Archives. Gerry won't be here for another hour and a half, but he's already done with today's work, and he doubts the Eye will volunteer anything else. It's been fairly quiet since they came back, almost as if it's annoyed Jon is choosing to regain his strength slowly through Gerry's volunteered statements instead of going out hunting. 

"Spot's taken." A sullen voice breaks him out of his reverie, and Jon looks up to find Tim leaning against the opposite wall and glaring fiercely at the Institute's building. 

"Oh. Sorry, I'm- I won't be long." Some of the rubbish around Tim's feet is smoking; Jon clears his throat and points at the smoldering pieces.

"Hm. My bad." Tim shrugs and stomps on a crumpled paper bag until it goes out. "Thought you'd quit," he says, and Jon notices with a start that his eyes have landed on the pack of cigarettes in his hand.

"It isn't like they can kill me now, is it?" Jon says, almost testily. He remembers how much Tim insisted back when they were frien- back in research, until Jon dropped the vice. 

Tim brings a hand up to Jon's face, and snaps his fingers once. A single bright red flame spurts from his thumb, emitting a heat disproportionate to its size. "I'm rooting for them," he says, and the smile on his face is dry, but his humor is the same. Jon smiles sadly as he pulls out a cigarette to light it with the offered fire.

They stand there in silence for a moment, the tip of Jon's cigarette flaring and smoking every time Tim shifts, and Jon getting random tidbits about the passersby that walk past the alley. It would be a fun setup for a joke, Jon thinks, two monsters out for a smoke break. 

"...I wish it had been Sasha that got brought back," Tim mutters after about ten minutes -nine and twenty eight seconds, the Beholding supplies helpfully-. His voice is almost careful, Jon notices; not guarded like it's been for years now, but somehow... fragile. 

Jon closes his eyes, and behind his eyelids he sees flashes of moments he's not meant to be privy to. Tim and Sasha joking easily back and forth as they move boxes of statements around the Archives. Looks and touches lingering for longer than they ought to. Heading back to Sasha's flat from the pub one night.

It never ceases to amaze him, how many things he just didn't see before. Yet another thing he was chosen for without being even the slightest bit adept at.

"I don't. Sasha- she died human. She died herself," Jon says quietly. It hurts, but it's the truth. If there's anything that could qualify as fair in this whole situation is that Sasha didn't live to see herself become... like them.

"Still. She deserved a second chance," Tim exhales slowly, letting out a wisp of steam that curls and dissipates above his head. "Even _you_ had one."

The venom in the statement doesn't strike Jon as hard anymore. He's grown immune to it, coming from Tim. "Yes, because I chose wrong. Everyone who _chooses_ this life is wrong."

Tim lifts an eyebrow. "What about your tall glass of water?"

Jon's face heats up against the cool night air. He briefly considers Knowing which one Tim is referring to just to spare himself the embarrassment of asking, but that's a frivolous use of power if there's ever been one. 

"None of them chose this," he grumbles instead, face still burning under Tim's gaze. "Martin and Gerry didn't choose this any more than you did, Tim."

"I guess." Tim blows a ring of steam into the night, and they both watch it drift and distend until it's faded completely. "Martin won't talk to me anymore."

Jon sighs, and goes to pull out a second cigarette; he's going to need it. "I was- I haven't sought him out in a while. But I can- something happened, while we were gone.

"Don't you think it has anything to do with your new boyfriend?" Tim asks, pressing his thumb against the tip of Jon's cigarette, "It's gotta be fuel for the Lonely, to see this hot goth come from nowhere and speedrun through all the stages of falling for an asshole when he's still stuck at 'unrequited crush'."

"It's not." Jon sticks the cigarette between his lips and crosses his arms over his chest, looking resolutely away. 

"It's not what?" 

"...Unrequited," Jon mumbles so low he doubts for a moment Tim heard him. Silence blankets over them again, as Jon's cigarette steadily burns down. 

Tim shifts on his spot, and Jon Sees again, suddenly. Tim is thinking -curious, pained, _angry_ \- back at the time when he would've wanted to comment on that.

"Would you look at that," Tim says finally. Jon can feel the bite coming, but it sounds... tired. Like that day at the coffeeshop before Tim walked away. "Martin's self destructive tendencies _did_ win in the end. Kudos to him."

"There's no accounting for taste, apparently." Jon shrugs. "But no. I don't think it has anything to do with Gerry. He's been trying to tether Martin back since before you showed up again. They... they get along. Or they did, before we left for Ny-Alessünd. Gerry hasn't had any luck talking to him since we came back, either. 

Tim is still looking at him, and Jon fidgets a little on his spot, uncomfortable.

"Can't- couldn't you Know?" Tim asks, after a moment.

Jon arches an eyebrow. "I did not expect you of all people to ask me to do that."

"What, you suddenly grew a conscience about your spooky stalking problem?"

"I don't- it's not like I _want_ this, Tim." Jon sighs.

"But you'll do it?"

Jon looks at him, and finds Tim is expecting his answer with an almost hopeful look in his face. "Yes. For- if I can use these powers to help the people I love- I'll do it."

Tim's mouth twitches around half formed words for a moment, before he nods. "Well- get to it, then."

"Actually, I could use a little help, before you go and Behold that-" a third voice makes both of them jump around to find Helen's door on the side of the building. "If you could come down to the Archives?"

Jon scowls. Helen looks... her whole shape is almost _blurry_. The Distortion's grip on her own form is never too stable, but there's something different about this, less like she's changing and more like she's _ceasing to be_. Her curled hair looks deflated and lackluster, her face looks like it's trying to slip off of her, or melt back into her skull, and her knuckles are almost white where they're clenched around the door's edge.

"What happened to you?" he asks. The compulsion slips into his voice accidentally, but Helen doesn't even seem to notice.

"If you must know, I ate something that didn't agree with me." Helen's grip on the door tightens. 

Jon lifts an eyebrow. "You kept Jared Hopworth in there for months. How is this one giving you trouble?"

"I'm not exactly made of flesh. There's not too much that one could do to hurt me." Helen grimaces. "But I'm hardly a person, which is... the main problem here."

"... It's feeding on you." Jon whispers, when Helen winces again. 

Tim whistles under his breath. "What the hell did you lure in?"

Helen purses her lips, or what's left of them, and Jon considers the situation for a moment.

For all that Helen has said she's on their side, she's... well, dangerous. She's not even culling her hunger like Jon himself is, and they really don't have any proof of her alignment. Helen comes and goes, and Jon sometimes wonders if she herself knows what her plan is, or if there's even one. If whatever unlucky avatar she ate is really devouring her from the inside... that's two less terrors left in the world. Who knows how many lives could be saved?

"Ah... I see how it is." Helen mutters, after a few more moments. "I should've known-"

Jon sighs. "Get your door to my office," he orders, before going back into the building.

"Hm. Monster solidarity, then? How sweet." Tim says as he descends the stairs behind him. Jon rolls his eyes.

"I don't know that I'm the one who should decide who lives or dies, Tim. Helen has... she's helped us."

"Go team Archives," Tim says sarcastically.

"I don't know what you're coming down for." Rephrasing questions around Tim is almost second nature now, a habit Jon has fallen back into, with Tim's return. 

"I'm just curious." Tim shrugs, and Jon can tell he's lying even without Seeing. The mix of feelings swirling inside Tim's mind is too complex to try to decipher anyways, much less right now that they're coming into the Archives. 

"What's going on?" Daisy's standing at one of the desks, one arm stretched to keep Basira slightly back and to the side. The door to Jon's office -Helen's door now- is banging and shaking, alarmingly loud. 

"Something is eating her from the inside." Tim shrugs, before looking at Basira. "You should probably get out."

"Shut it." 

"Of course." Tim nods.

"Helen?" Jon calls out. "You can-"

The door flies open. 

Out into the room tumbles... _something_ , long-limbed and with too many joints, looking somewhere between a mix of Helen and- ah.

It makes sense, that out of all the entities, the Stranger would be the most dangerous to Helen. Helen, who's neither monster nor person now, whose face is not actually hers because she's not really her anymore. Would it even be able to steal an identity that doesn't exist, or would that make it easier?

"Ah... Hello, Jon." Not Sasha pushes her hair back with a hand, climbing to her feet. Her eyes run over the rest of the people in the room, the same eyes that gleamed in amusement and badly concealed mischief whenever they promised that _'no, Jon, of course I wasn't looking at your emails, I would **never**!'_. Except they aren't, because the memory of those is lost, and even Jon with all his powers will never remember them. "Tim! Sweetheart, it's so good to see you again." 

"You." Tim's clipped voice is followed by the temperature in the room rising, the heat almost searing at Jon's back.

Not Sasha smiles like a knife, all cruel angles that Jon knows -even if he can't remember- have nothing to do with the real Sasha's smile. "You've got some fun new tricks! We could _really_ get it going now. What do you say? Pick up where we left off?"

Tim steps forward, but Jon stretches an arm almost on reflex, the burn in his hand throbbing like it recognizes the heat of the Desolation.

"Step aside Jon." Tim says, his voice brimming with barely restrained anger, and Jon remembers the memories he saw just now at the alley. He can't tell how many of those were actually the real Sasha, and his heart aches a little at the realization that Tim has probably asked himself the same countless times. "I won't ask you ag-"

"You'll kill us all." Basira speaks from her spot behind Daisy. "It's what she wants. If you burn the Archives we're all dead, Tim."

It clicks, then. 

The Not Them aren't stupid, or impulsive. Not Sasha knows she's outnumbered, that there's no way she's getting out of the Archives alive. With Daisy moving to stand with Basira before Helen's door, and Jon and Tim before the only other exit, she's planning on taking them down with her.

Jon takes a deep breath, before he starts, carefully. "Tim-"

"Don't," Tim snaps. "Don't even try it. You don't know- I'm going to kill her. Shut up!" he snarls at Not Sasha, when she gives a low giggle. "If I have to-"

"Kill Martin?" Jon asks, and Tim flinches back. "Basira, Daisy, Melanie?"

"Did you notice, love?" Not Sasha speaks in a sickly soft voice. "He's not in the list. He knows he deserves it if you kill him. If he'd been any stronger, he'd have known it was me from the moment I took dear, sweet Sasha. Maybe he would've even known to warn her not to come near my table!"

"Tim-" Jon tries again, but Tim lifts a hand to stop him. His eyes are glowing a fiery orange even behind his closed eyelids, his brow is covered in sweat, and the hardwood floor has begun to smoke around his feet. 

"Shut up. Shut-" Tim is shaking with effort, the temperature in the room going up and down like someone's playing with a thermostat.

"Did you know she was alive? The first few months, at least. Kept trying to get you to look at my reflection so you'd see it didn't match." Not Sasha grins, when Tim crouches on his spot, burying his face in his hands. "I think she was still watching, the first time we kiss-"

" _That's enough_." Jon snaps, and the monster's mouth clicks shut. He takes a step before Tim's shaking form, hoping against hope that he can keep control for a bit longer. "Nobody fears you. We know who you aren't, and you have no power here."

Not Sasha's face sours, and Jon feels a rush of dark satisfaction, in seeing her try -and fail- to talk back. This is his Archive, and he's got _much better_ weapons than a pipe this time.

"Jon?" Daisy asks carefully, but Jon shakes his head. "Jon, the qu-"

"Just kill it already!" Basira squeezes at Daisy's arm, gesturing pointedly at Tim. "We can worry about that later, just _do it_ , before he blows."

Not Sasha makes a break for the exit, but doesn't make it too far before Daisy tackles her from the back, the blood boiling beneath her skin and the thought of _Jon_ in her mind. Maybe this is what Gerry meant when he said they had to be a team; protect each other, by whatever means possible. 

"Do you remember them? Do you remember all you took from them?" Jon asks, calling on the voice of the Archivist as he takes a step towards the struggling monster. He can see the lights flickering, hear the static rising behind his voice until it reaches deafening levels. " _Remember her_ , because we can't. Because you took her from herself."

"Stop-" Not Sasha grunts in pain. Her features shift even as Jon watches, stretching, contracting, like she's trying to find a form that will keep her safe from him. 

"Remember all the things that she was. Everything that you are not." Jon feels the words flowing through him without even a thought spared for them, like he Knows exactly what threads to pull on, to undo the weaving keeping Not Sasha together. 

"Fuck you- I made her suffer, when I peeled her _name_ off. I should've made it last longe-"

"Silence," Jon orders again, and he feels heat pooling behind his eyes, at the base of his throat, filtering through to his next words. "You will _remember_ Sasha James-"

"NO!"

"-and you will Know that _you are **nothing**_."

The creature's scream is ragged and crackling, dissolving in the static of the eye as she changes and squirms and _melts_ , evaporating until Daisy's weight hits the ground, nothing beneath her anymore. 

"...That's new." Basira moves forward to help Daisy to her feet. "Is everyone alright?"

"I'm just... I'll sit," Jon mumbles as a wave of exhaustion washes over him. 

"Could someone come into my corridors and be confused for a bit?" Helen asks through her ajar door. "I promise I'll let you out."

There's a rush of movement, and Helen's door slams shut. Jon slides down to sit at Sasha's old desk, without the energy or the words that it would take to reach Tim right now.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO sorry for the late update hahaha

**XV**

"So... where did you find her?" Tim asks, as he walks around a corner. It opens to a long corridor, with tasteful hardwood floors and sensible faded ochre walls. There's a little table by the wall anywhere between five and a hundred steps in, right below a mirror that's usually round, but sometimes is triangular or square. Right now it's eight-sided, and Tim looks into it to fix his hair- and his face. The latter melts a little if he's not paying attention, but is easy enough to mold back into shape.

"Roaming the tunnels. She was a bit lost. Everyone is, down there." Helen's voice echoes all around him, and his headache gets the slightest bit worse. There's no telling how long he's been here for, but at least in her corridors he can pretend the confusion is only a side effect of Helen around him.

"So you thought it would be a good idea to make her into dinner." There's a single cobweb stretched between the little table's legs, and Tim presses a finger to it like he's done to the others, watching it curl and shrivel as it chars to nothing. "Or were you actually trying to get her out and throw her at us?"

"Burn a couple more of those, and I might be able to tell you." Helen's voice is clearer now. Bitter. Tim nods grimly.

"I'm going to need you to let me out somewhere else."

"Better if you don't say the name, I think." Helen sighs. "Keep walking."

So Tim does. There's still plenty to be confused about. The Desolation rages inside him, feeding from the raw loss burning a hole through his chest 

Sasha's dead.

No, he corrects himself. She's been dead for a while now, years. The _thing_ Jon killed was just that; a monster, no matter how many times Tim called it Sasha's name. No matter how many times Tim found himself loving it.

The fire at his core burns a bit hotter.

He keeps trying to tell himself he was loving the memory of Sasha and not the beast, but is there really any memory left of her? Logically speaking -ugh, he sounds like _Jon_ -, he knows there have to be. He knew Sasha - _loved_ Sasha- long before the table came, but when he tries to conjure them, all he sees is the long-limbed _thing_ , the ghost of its touch on Tim's skin sending shocks of nausea through his stomach.

"If you're going to puke, please wait until I let you out."

"Feeling vindictive, aren't we?" Tim composes a smirk even as he takes a deep breath to fend the nausea off, leaning heavily against the little table. His reflection on the half moon-shaped mirror looks decrepit with exhaustion. 

"Aren't you?" Helen asks, and Tim's knuckles whiten around the table's edges. 

There was a spiderweb on that table, and there's another on Jon's lighter. 

"You have no idea."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Calling the fog is easier now.

Tim hasn't been home in a while, and Gerry hasn't sought him out either after he lashed out at him. Which is... what he wanted, he supposes. 

It's much better to work like this, now that even Peter has opted for leaving him alone. Without interruptions, without the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Lately, he has started to suspect even the Eye's gaze slips off of him at times. 

It makes him wonder if Jon can still See him. If he even tries anymore. 

There's probably no answer to that question that could make him feel... something, not anymore. Martin shakes his head, hoping to dislodge the thought and go back to his work. There's things to do, including a new statement to record that Peter must've slipped in before he arrived. He's getting close to being done with this, at least. 

Will there be anything left of him once he doesn't need to be lonely? 

Will there be anyone left who cares?

All he can see when he tries to look into his future is the comforting, cool embrace of the fog. It's not a surprise, not really. Fear has ever been a constant in Martin's life.

A tape recorder clicks to life by his elbow, and Martin sighs. "Yes, alright. I'll just... Martin Blackwood, assistant to Peter Lukas, Head of the Magnus Institute. Recording statement... what is it? 0131305..."

The feeling is... odd, he decides after he goes through Judith O'Neill's statement barely giving the words a thought, as fast as he can without mangling it, because the sound of his own voice is grating to his ears.

"It's... I _know_ I should feel guilty, you know?" he asks the tape recorder, resting his chin on his hand. "I mean, this is this person's _worst_ moment, that she trusted _us_ with, to preserve and protect. And- and I'm just trying to get it over with."

 _Click._ Martin feels his lips curl into a small smile. Who knew he could still do that?

"Yes, I guess so. But it still doesn't feel like I'm doing enough. Not that it ever has, but still..." He sighs. 

It doesn't really matter, does it? All Jon and Gerry need is the information, not his thoughts on it, not his- just the facts. That's what they want, and- and since he finished this quickly enough, he should be able to sneak down into the Archives and drop the tape at his old desk before Gerry can try to come get it.

He doesn't have to see the hurt on his face when he sends him away again.

The door to the office closes silently behind him as he steps into the corridor to start the way down to the Archives, and he's immediately assaulted with the pressing sensation of other people's existence. Martin doesn't quite Know about every person in the Institute, but he can _feel_ their presence like one would feel the heat from standing too close to a fire; a warning to get away, before you end up burned. Luckily for everyone, life in the Institute seems to be contained at the upper levels, the building completely silent once he reaches the bottom floor. 

The old break room calls to him like a siren at sea, but Martin ignores it. There's nothing for him there anymore, other than a brightly painted mug pushed to the back of the cupboard to be forgotten, like the painful memory of the times when there were no fears of monsters, and the biggest worry in Martin's mind was a fake resume.

This is why he hates coming down here, he thinks with a sigh. It's just... logically, he knows they were never going to stay that way, planning birthday parties and getting to know each other, the little Archive team. He knows they were doomed the moment they signed their transfer to their new department. But still... Better times, less complicated, and- there's a woman there.

More importantly, a woman he doesn't recognize. She's tall and dark skinned, with tightly curled hair pulled into a bun at the top of her head, her sharp, deep brown eyes examining what Martin recognizes with a muted sense of alarm as a scorch mark shaped like footsteps on the polished hardwood floor. 

"Excuse me? You can't be here." Martin says after a deep breath. The tape recorder in his hand clicks on again; great, now Jon is going to hear him chasing away his meal. "Did you come to give a statement? I'm afraid we're not taking new ones at the moment."

There's a pang of nausea at the lie, but Martin ignores it. If he can keep one more person from tangling in with this-

"I gave it a while ago. Haven't been too afraid ever since." The woman shrugs after turning to face him. She's wearing a black tank top with a stylized ghost on it, that Martin would once have smiled at. "I'm only waiting for Melanie. You're Martin?"

He blinks. "You... know me?"

The woman's lips twitch. "Jon talked a lot about you while he was staying at my house."

Martin frowns in confusion, until it all clicks in his mind. The ghost, the statement, Melanie, Jon. The fact that he couldn't feel her at all before practically running into her.

"Huh. I- I didn't know Melanie-Georgie and Jon-Georgie were the same person." Martin feels the air around him cool a little more when he gives her a second, evaluating look. She's beautiful, and she looks confident and calm even in this place of terror. Jon... Jon really has a type, Martin thinks as his mind conjures the image of a pair of blue-green eyes glaring up at Peter in defiance.

"Small world and all that." Georgie shrugs. She frowns then, after she gives him a once-over of her own and apparently finds him lacking. Which is... not ideal, probably, but Martin can't bring himself to care. "Are you alright?"

"I am. Thank you." Martin looks away, because her eyes are _nothing_ like Jon's asides from being a similar dark brown in color, but Martin finds himself thinking of them anyways. "Could I ask you to let Jon know I left this here? Or- or Gerry. He'll do too."

He can feel Georgie's eyes on him for another, unbearably long minute, before she speaks again. "Why don't you tell them yourself?"

"I'm- we're not really... talking. Not anymore." He's aware he doesn't owe her an explanation, but it's... why lie to a stranger, specially one that doesn't care?

"Ah." Georgie's gaze falls for a moment, before she lifts it back to Martin's face. "Could I ask why? Jon speaks very well of you. And from what Melanie tells me-"

"Actually, I'd rather you _didn't_." Martin cuts in. There's a pang of irritation at his stomach, and he feels the Lonely receding just the slightest bit. Not good, not- "With all due respect, it's none of your business, or Melanie's. Or anyone's, really."

Georgie's eyebrows climb up her forehead. "Wow. Okay. I'm sorry, I suppose. I just thought-"

"You don't know me." Martin says it more for himself than for her. She doesn't know him, and she'll forget him the moment he walks away. The so-called "concern" in her voice is just that, a misguided attempt motivated by-

"Well no, but Jon cares for you." She shrugs.

"Jon cares too much, that's the problem." Didn't he hear Tim complain about that years ago, angry and drunk against Jon's desk with Melanie slumped on his side in a similar state? Jon doesn't care until he _does_ , and then you can't tell which one is worse. 

Georgie's eyes are _still_ digging into him, so intense Martin has to remind himself she has nothing to do with the Watcher. 

"I think it usually ends worse for the ones that care for Jon, actually." And she arches an eyebrow in a gesture Martin has seen Jon made countless times. It's funny, how people pick up traits from the ones they love. He wonders which one of them had the gesture originally, and which one took it in and made it their own.

Has he picked up anything from Jon? The way he pushes his glasses up his nose, or holds his cup of tea? It's... that would be nice, he thinks. That even when he goes into the Lonely, when he's no longer capable of loving Jon -if he still is-, there will be a part of him that remains. 

He also wonders if Jon has picked up anything from _him_ , but the thought is cold and faded. Martin has always been on the sidelines, easy enough to forget once you get him out of your way. What would Jon even take?

"-tin?" Georgie's voice reaches him faintly, distorted.

"Maybe." There's a strange echo to his own words, and he can see the wisps of fog curling around him. "But it's good that people care for him anyways."

"What-"

"It's nice to know he won't be alone."

Georgie takes a step towards him, but stops short a second after, as her eyes glaze over for a beat. Her brow furrows in confusion, and she looks around the bullpen, her gaze sliding off of Martin.

"Okay, I'm ready, sorry I- Georgie?" Melanie asks as she comes into the room, frowning when Georgie continues to look around the office. "What's wrong?"

"I... nothing, I guess." Georgie's eyes are still confused. "I just- I could swear I was talking to someone."

Melanie gives the room a once-over of her own and Martin holds his breath, but she doesn't notice him either. Good. 

"Huh." Melanie hums in thought for a moment, before her eyes turn mischievous and her lips curl into a grin. "Maybe it was a g-g-g-ghost? I know a pretty girl that does a podcast about that, you should tell her the story."

Georgie huffs a chuckle then, her encounter with Martin already forgotten. "I think I know the one. With the cute girlfriend, right?"

"That's her. Bad taste in food and men, amazing taste in women." Melanie hooks her arm through Georgie's, a pleased, slightly flushed smile on her face as she pulls Georgie towards the door. "Let's go?"

"I- hm. I think I was supposed to tell Jon something." Georgie hesitates a little at the threshold, and Martin's heart skips a bit.

"Ugh, just text him. You'll make his day."

"Don't be mean." Georgie smiles.

"I can live with you on his side or with Gerry on his side, please don't ask me to do both, I'm not strong enough."

Georgie laughs, the sound growing fainter as the door closes and they walk away, leaving Martin behind.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim stumbles out the door, his head protesting as his body tries to adjust to the change in perspective, which is most definitely _not_ aided by him immediately rolling down half a flight of stairs.

"Would it have killed you to find a something at floor level instead?" Tim grumbles, rubbing at his bruised shin.

"If you find one that's not sealed, feel free to let me know." Helen says dryly, pulling her door closed as Tim glares up at her. "Good luck, dear!"

Tim rolls his eyes, and when he's focused them on the door again it's back to being an old, dusty window through which he can just barely see the street below.

Fine. This is amazing.

A single thread of spider silk pulls at his elbow, and Tim huffs a dry, humorless cackle. 

"Done with subtlety, aren't you?" The thread is trying to tug him upstairs, so Tim burns it off before starting in the opposite way.

He can feel the Web trying to wrap itself around him, to obscure his mind and concern him with matters that will take him out of here. Where is Martin? Is he alright? What if he was in Helen's corridors for so long that everyone's gone?

Tim chuckles at the thought as he comes to a stop before a door sealed shut with cobwebs.

Who else could he lose? Sasha's dead, and so is the thing that tricked him into loving it. Danny's gone, his death successfully -but so _unsatisfactorily_ \- avenged. Martin continues to slip through his fingers no matter how much he tries, and-

 _"Just spit it out."_ Tim freezes when he recognizes his voice, static-y and grainy with the whirr of a tape recorder as background. 

_"You're not planning on coming back."_ Jon's voice has the finality of a goodbye, and Tim realizes abruptly that he _remembers_ this conversation. He didn't realize it was being recorded at the time, or he wouldn't sound nearly as put together. 

Tim-on-tape laughs, so ugly, so _angry_ that Tim-in-the-flesh flinches. 

_"That's rich. Do you care now? That's called guilt, Boss"_

_"Tim-"_

_"Don't. Stew on it, for all I care. You deserve it."_

A sigh, long and tired, before a weak, broken voice.

_"I'm so sorry, Tim..."_

Tim lets out a sigh of his own, mouthing his next word.

 _"Good."_

Steps crunching on gravel, as Tim walks back into the cheap motel and leaves Jon alone with his thoughts.

It's no wonder the Desolation chose him, all that burning anger boiling just under his skin, the taste of ash on his tongue, the finger pressed down on the trigger to call on destruction like a well-trained dog. So convinced that Jon, who he'd loved so much and who cast him aside without so much as an explanation, was the cause of all his anger. So _eager_ to make him suffer just the same.

"Is that really all you got?!" he shouts out, and his breath comes out in puffs of steam that leave Tim's nostrils burning with the scent of guilt. "Mistress of manipulation, and all you have for me is 'you were angry and a douche'? Because guess what? I _still_ am!"

His hand burns its imprint all the way down to the wood, as the cobwebs shrivel away.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_I suppose it was clever of you, to send this one specifically. I have never been too fond of his kind. Too... volatile, if you'll excuse the little joke._

_But I'll move on. I'm a grown woman, and I know perfectly well when I've lost a battle. It isn't even that big of a tangle in the grand scheme of things, now that I think about it._

_And see, that's exactly what I wanted to talk about, Jon. How would you say it?_

_Statement of Anabelle Cane, regarding inevitability._

_Was that good? Did it do something for you?_

_See, I'm ever so good to you, dear. I know you're on a little 'diet', but one fresh statement can't be too much, can it? Just a single taste, you've been behaving so properly for your team..._

_But I've strayed from my point again. I do that sometimes, you know? It's a bit hard to focus on a single thing, when everything is so intricately connected! Try following a thread in the weave of a tapestry, see how long it takes you to lose track of it in the big, beautiful picture._

_No, what I wanted to talk about, how did I put it? Inevitability?_

_You're familiar with that, aren't you, Jon? How running and running away only ever brings you back to where you're supposed to be._

_I learned of it the first time I ran away from my family home. I had all these grandiose dreams, coming back artfully smeared in dirt, perhaps with a nasty-looking, but perfectly applied gash to my arm or leg, and I would never have to ask for anything again. I would be Anabelle, lost and returned, the greatest treasure my family could ask for._

_The house already danced to the beat I drummed, but I wanted more. I wanted things to go my way before I even had to orchestrate them. I wanted things to land on my web, and strangle themselves to death trying to pull themselves out._

_It was a good plan, for a nine years old._

_I could tell you about the woman, I suppose. Young, and emaciated and lost, weaving herself into a tapestry she could not see, so desperate to feel something that she didn't notice when the syringes began overflowing with many-legged things that scurried and ran through her veins much more effective in soothing her pain and fear than the heroin ever was._

_I could tell you how I ran. How I climbed back up my window before my older sister even noticed I was ever missing. How I shook that sleepless night, seeing crawling shadows everywhere, feeling the pinprick of their legs on my skin. I thought the woman was a demon that was sent to scare me into being a nice little girl, to correct me from the nasty schemes I orchestrated to get others in trouble._

_You would know, wouldn't you, Jon? The incredible lengths to which a child's mind can go to try and rationalize an encounter like ours._

_And it worked, I suppose. For years, I stopped manipulating, I stopped weaving. The urge was still there, and the ability of course. It was almost as though I could see the threads connecting every occurrence with the outcome I wanted, just waiting for me to pull on it the right way. But I didn't. I had seen my punishment, and I would be good, I told myself._

_Didn't you do something similar, when you found my little book? You were adorable._

_But you see, even though we both tried to run, to break free of the path we were meant to take, we both ended up exactly where we were needed. Don't hate me too much for pulling your strings, dear, just remember there's a bigger puppeteer out there._

_And please, don't take this as some sort of grim reminder -everything is always grim with you, isn't it Jon?- that free will is a lie, and we are all just chess pieces moving across a board. That is not what I mean at all!_

_Free will is a beautiful thing, and so satisfying to have. You specifically have a will of iron, Jon, and that is a high compliment, coming from me. The twists and turns I've had to send you in just make sure you had what you needed to survive! And all just because you were too stubborn to take the path the Eye set for you._

_But that is exactly what the beauty of an ineluctable plan is, just to come back to the original subject of my statement. Knowing that your every movement, your every choice is already factored in the grand scheme of things. I find it soothing, don't you? Knowing that no matter how far you stray from the path, you cannot truly ruin anything._

_Look at your dear friend. An unwanted variable in my plan for sure, but apparently not to the Mother's one, since I ended up talking to you after all. Perhaps a little earlier or later than I originally should have, but things worked out in the end. They always do._

_Perhaps all the players must, at some point, take a look around, and see if they're not standing on a checkered board themselves. I can think of some people specifically, but it wouldn't do to ruin the surprise._

_Now, how do you close these things? Your charming little catchphrase… ah, of course._

_Statement ends._

"I- you found this?" Jon's voice is a bit shaky as he finally looks up from the paper, and the tape recorder clicks to a stop on its own. "Were you looking for it?"

Tim shrugs. "Not really."

"But then- Tim, why were you at Hill-"

"It's none of your business, alright?" Tim rolls his eyes. "Maybe I just decided I really fucking hate spiders."

After listening to that, he definitely does. 

Jon's arachnophobia has never been a secret, but he guesses it makes a lot more sense now. A lot of things do.

He doesn't like any of them.

"Tim-"

"I'm going to leave now."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Tim said you were full of spiderwebs." Jon's voice is calm, quiet. 

Helen tilts her head. "Aren't we all?" She asks. It's not in her nature to give straight answers.

"I'm starting to think so." Jon gives a sigh.

It's a fun little tableau they make, each on one side of the desk, between them a tape recorder with a bit of tape still left, a sheet of paper next to it. 

"This is how we met," Helen hums thoughtfully. There is no map on the paper, and the statement in the recorder is not hers - _about her_ -, but it still feels painfully, exquisitely familiar. "Back when we were both human."

Jon lets out a little huff of air, like her words are somehow a surprise for him, who could Know it all. "Do you remember how that felt like?"

Helen smiles, feeling her lips curl in on themselves dozens of times. "Do you?"

"A little, at times." Jon lays a hand on the desk, and Helen sees the recorder practically click on and vibrate with the need to go to him. Funny little things. "More, lately. I... having everyone helps."

"That doesn't bode too well for Martin." 

"I- it doesn't. But I'm- I wonder if you'd be this far gone, if I hadn't turned you away when you first came to me."

Helen tilts her head, when Jon's eyes fix on her. They don't have the lovely green glow they take when he uses his powers, and they look... sad.

It's not an emotion the Distortion knows how to deal with, because the Distortion shouldn't be dealing with feelings anyways. It's even more puzzling to have it aimed at her. 

The part of her that is still Helen -is that all of her? Is that _any_ of her?- feels a pang of grim satisfaction. "Is that what this is, then? Making amends?"

Jon shakes his head slowly, sadly. How can a man exude so much melancholy? Is that what happens, when you care so much?

"Not really. I- we were always going to change, I think. Our only choice is how we do it." He pushes the tape recorder towards her, with a tired smile. "I hear you collect them?"

"Only until it's time." Still, Helen cradles the recorder in her hands. Such a curious thing. 

"Time for what?"

"I don't know." Helen shrugs at an angle that should not be quite possible for shoulder joints to give. "Doesn't it frustrate you, Jon?"

He gives a little, choked up laugh. "You'll have to be a bit more specific."

"All these rules about what should and shouldn't be done. We are power. Why should we be contained?" 

Why should they?

Why should they strive to stay human, when that's the very thing that was ripped from them? Why-

"I think... Because I _want_ to be contained." Jon gives his desk a little thoughtful frown, before looking up at her again. "If I'm going to be a monster, I'm going to be one in my own terms."

"How noble of you." Helen arches an eyebrow, and Jon's lips twitch into the ghost of a smile.

"Selfish, really. It's the only thing I have left."

"Didn't she say it wouldn't matter, in the end?" Helen lifts the tape recorder to tuck it in the pocket of her blazer. "The grand scheme of things, and all that?"

"It matters to _me_." 

"So you'll spend the entire journey there being miserable, just for the sake of some moral high ground?"

Jon shakes his head, his lips moving around words he can't quite put together. It's almost a bad joke, the Archivist, tongue-tied.

"If I weren't miserable in this situation, I wouldn't be Jon." He says in the end. "I- maybe the Spider dropped me gift-wrapped at the Eye's front door, yes. But it can't take that from me. It can't take who I _am_."

"Bit boring, isn't it? Not changing at all, ever?"

"...Yes, I suppose you of all people might find it so."

"Can I still keep the tape?" she asks, clicking the stop button to make the funny little thing sleep again.

Jon sighs. "It's yours."

Helen smiles. "Just until it's time. Cheers, Jon, good luck on your moral crusade."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Corruption statements always leave behind a stale, sickly aftertaste. It's not too surprising really, but lately Jon has started to dislike them even more. 

It's the way this entity tries to disguise itself as love, as the natural progression of devotion into indiscriminate consumption, parasitism, destruction.

Everything that love isn't supposed to be, everything that-

The Eye pulls urgently at his mind, and Jon is dragged out of his reverie by the sudden Knowledge of sharp blades and singing blood.

Jon sighs, before diving into his desk drawer to pull out his mobile.

"Yeah, I think, um-" the door to his office opens and closes behind him, and Jon's heart races as he tries to force the next words out. "I think you should probably get down h-"

The phone is yanked from his hand, and Jon vaguely registers the sound of the call clicking to an end, far more focused on the edge of the knife that comes to rest against his throat. Right over Daisy's scar, like it's one of those 'cut here' lines, and the thought is much funnier than it should be.

"Hello, lad." Trevor Herbert's breath is musty and bitter, and Jon sighs. This is fine, this is- all he needs is for one of them to get distracted. He broke Breekon before, and Not Sasha too. This is his home terrain, he can-

"Miss us?" Julia's long-nailed, almost clawed hand grips his shoulder tightly and forces him back on his chair. "We have some things to discuss, it looks like," she says, and though her voice is pleasant enough, Jon can hear the underlying growl under it.

"If you give us the right answers, maybe we won't have to check if you're still human enough to bleed." Trevor smirks. Jon looks up at the old man, but everything in him is telling him to keep quiet, to wait for an opening. Hunters are not to be taken lightly, much less as a pack.

"You've got something of ours." Julia stabs a knife of her own right through Barbara Mullen-Jones' statement. "Took it right from under our noses."

"After we saved you from that Stranger puppet and gave you all the information you needed. Very rude to steal our biggest resource." Trevor presses the blade a bit tighter to his neck, but Jon couldn't care less about it anymore.

How could he have been so stupid? He'd thought they were here for him, why come to the Archives if not to kill the Archivist? Something hot and dark and _angry_ starts brewing in his stomach.

"Gerry wasn't yours," he snarls. "You had no right to-" the knife presses deeper, and Jon's mouth snaps shut more out of the Eye's self preservation sense than his own, his mind still reeling with the memory of the pained ghost that asked him for a smoke, just a shadow of the man he-

"You heard that, Julia?" Trevor cackles." 'Gerry'!"

"Seems like you've gotten pretty chummy." Julia leans over, her mouth curled in a sardonic smile. "Pull dear Gerry out every now and then for a tasty statement, don't you?"

Jon's eyes narrow as he tries to ignore the pang of guilt in his stomach. Of course he feeds from Gerry, but it's- he's not like them.

"Where is it?" Trevor snaps at his silence, giving him a shake. The knife breaks skin, not enough to bleed but enough so that Jon feels the sting. 

"I set him free." And Gerry came back to him, he's _Jon's_ now, and they are _not_ taking him again. 

"You _what_?" Julia grabs him by the shirt, pulling him up to his feet. Jon comes gladly, his chin held high and holding Julia's gaze. He can see the Hunt in her eyes, but Jon finds that he's not too intimidated, not after Daisy, and definitely not when Gerry's life is on the line.

"You wasted your time coming here." Jon says simply.

"Aren't you feeling ballsy today?" Julia gives him a hard shove, and Jon topples back on his chair. "But we didn't. We can at least get rid of another mouthy monster before we go. You want the honors, old man?"

Trevor shifts his grip on the handle of the knife, a wide, lupine grin spreading over his face. "Don't mind if I do." Jon's lips twitch into a smile, and the two hunters scowl.

"Get away from him." Daisy snarls from the open door to Jon's office, and Trevor and Julia snap around to face her. 

"Who- ah. Got yourself a guard dog, didn't you?" Trevor laughs. "Smart bastard."

"More of a lapdog. She's scrawny, isn't she?" Julia goes for a mocking, dismissive tone, but Jon sees the stiffness in her limbs, and the nervous twitch of a muscle on her jaw. 

Jon looks at Daisy, and he realizes for the first time just how sickly she looks. The lean frame that wrapped around him in the Buried now appears emaciated, and though Jon can See the boiling presence with too many teeth trying to burst out of her skin, there's no denying what abstaining from the Hunt has done to her. 

"Malnourished, more like. Haven't tasted blood in a while, have you?" Trevor asks. "This one will die nicely; you could come with your kind instead."

"Or I could hunt _you_ instead." Daisy takes a step forward, and Jon Sees the hunter boiling even closer to the surface.

"Don't." Julia say simply, when Daisy makes to take another step. Her hand digs into Jon's hair, pulling back to expose his neck. "Or I'll kill your library rat."

"You can try. You better hope you're faster than me, though." Daisy's voice devolves into a low growl, and Julia responds in kind. Trevor says nothing, merely watching the two women face off.

"Do you really think you can take us both?" She asks, tightening her grip in Jon's hair. "You're weak."

"Are you willing to bet your daddy's life on it?" Daisy bares her teeth.

"I'm not her father," Trevor says sullenly, and Jon snorts. 

"Are you sure?" Jon asks, and Julia yanks roughly on his head.

"Shut up, I'll-"

"Let's go." Trevor interrupts. Jon gives him a quick glance, an old wolf that has learned to pick his battles. 

"Old man-"

"There's no rush. Plenty of monsters to go around, too." Trevor gives Daisy a grin that she responds to with another growl. "Good luck guarding them all."

Julia gives another snarl, letting go of Jon's hair with a harsh shove that has Daisy flinching forward, before she and Trevor make for the door. Daisy stands there like a statue, and Jon feels the tension in the air rising with every passing second, until Trevor and Julia seem to decide to just go around her. 

Their stomping footsteps grow fainter and fainter in the distance, Daisy crouches to the floor, her entire frame shaking.

Jon shoots from his chair. "Daisy? Are you-"

"Don't touch me," Daisy snarls, startling Jon. He pulls back the hand he was about to lay on her shoulder.

"Daisy. Listen to me." Jon kneels before her. "Just-"

"They're not gone yet. They're- I could find them. I could _take_ them down." Daisy's shoulders shake even harder, and Jon forces himself to not flinch back.

"The- remember what you said, Daisy. Don't listen to the blood..."

"...Listen to the quiet," Daisy responds after what feels like an eternity. Jon carefully lays his hand on her arm, right above the spot where her nails are digging into her skin. She leans into it, and Jon wraps his other arm around her.

"It's- you're wasting away." Jon squeezes her shoulders, muttering into her hair. "You need to-"

"I'm not going back to that." Very slowly, one of Daisy's arms comes to return the hug. 

"Daisy-"

"I hurt people, Jon. You know I did. I almost killed _you_ -"

Jon squeezes harder, as the Eye drops flash after flash into his mind. The last moment of all the people -all _beings_ \- whose last view was the Hunt-distorted face of Daisy Tonner. "That was not you. That was the Hunt."

"We're the same."

"No, you're not!" Jon snaps. "You're- it's different, Daisy. _You_ are different. What you were before-"

"I was a monster." Daisy's voice holds a special sort of fragility, and Jon tightens his grip as much as he can.

"There are worse things to be." 

They stay there for what feels like hours, until both their breathings slow down, until Daisy's shoulders stop shaking with the urge to chase, and her nails are no longer digging into Jon's shoulder.

"So... did something happen here, or is this just something you two do for fun?" Tim's voice comes from the still open door, and Daisy whips up so abruptly that Jon is just thrown back in a tangle of limbs. "Whoa, tense."

"Tim-" Jon clears his throat as he climbs to his feet. "This is _not_ a good time."

"When is it anymore?" Tim arches an eyebrow. "So?"

"It's noth-" Jon stops himself, sighing at Tim's unimpressed, guarded look. He chooses to trust. It doesn't matter that Tim doesn't trust him back, he- there's a reason for that, and Jon has to live with it. Maybe forever, now. "The hunters came by. Daisy scared them off."

"Top dog, I like it." Tim smirks at Daisy's answering scoff, before turning to face Jon again. "Did they come for you?"

"No, they-" Jon freezes, Trevor's last sardonic remark ringing in his head like a bell.

They're gone. They're gone, and they- Daisy was able to track him down to Michael Crew's house before she even knew the Hunt was in her. Trevor and Julia are both experienced hunters, and they came here for-

Jon shoots out the door, shoving his way past Tim and ignoring Daisy's concerned call, and hers and Tim's footsteps behind him as he rushes up the stairs and out of the institute.

He knows the way to follow like a bird flying South for Winter, a thread of steel pulling at his very core as buildings and street signs rush past the edge of his vision. He doesn't know how long he's ran for, his lungs burn and his legs are tired, -Jon has never been an athlete- but he's getting closer and-

Jon turns a corner and slams against something solid and soft and warm, bouncing back with a huff before his mind registers the concerned blue-green eyes looking down at him, and the shouting in his head comes to a halt.

"You're alright," are the first words Jon can form coherently.

"I- am?" Gerry arches an eyebrow, and Jon laughs with relief before throwing his arms around him. "Jon?" Gerry asks, an arm coming to rest over his shoulders, a hand behind his head.

"Huh, you were right. I owe you a drink I guess." Melanie says, her voice both dry and unimpressed, and Jon flinches back from Gerry's embrace like he's been burned. She rolls her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Of course they were together, they're hunting, how could he have forgotten? 

"I- the- at the Institute-" Jon sputters. Melanie's not with the Slaughter anymore, but she wouldn't have let Gerry face the hunters alone. His face starts heating up as the uselessness of his mad dash through the city rains down on him.

"Jon, what happened?" Gerry asks, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Is anyone- shit!" Gerry yanks him and Melanie out of the way, throwing the three of them against the wall just as Tim and Daisy turn the corner at full speed.

"We're here!" Melanie calls out calmly, and the two of them skid a few feet before turning back to face them.

"What the _fuck_ , Jon?!" Tim exclaims, steam shooting from his lips as he pants. Daisy eyes him in a way that makes it fairly clear she's thinking something along the same lines, and Jon wishes for nothing more than the earth to open up and swallow him whole. Again. 

"Uh- yes, I can-"

"Explain why you made us run all the way to Chelsea?!" Tim shouts again.

"Stop _yelling_ at him!" Daisy snarls. She looks considerably better than she did at the Institute, and Jon wonders if chasing after him did something for her. "Jon?"

Jon darts a look around, trying to gauge the general mood. Tim is, of course, furious. Both Gerry and Daisy are giving him mixed looks of worry and confusion, and Melanie seems to be enjoying his predicament.

"I- they were looking for him," Jon mutters, growing more and more embarrassed as Daisy and Tim start to connect the dots. 

Daisy sighs. "You though of calling _me_ on the phone, but not him?" 

Oh. That's- Gerry _does_ have a phone that he usually has with him.

"I... wasn't really thinking."

"You're kidding me." Tim groans, and immediately turns to the street to start hailing a cab down. "You're paying for my ride back, you asshole."

"Uh... can I ask what this is about?" Gerry leans down to whisper in his ear. Jon exhales, the relief at finding Gerry alive and well still swelling in his chest. 

"At home. Please?"

Gerry's brow furrows, but he eventually nods. "At home, then." And he presses a kiss to Jon's temple.

Jon, who is most _definitely_ not used to public displays of affection, freezes on his spot. His face burns even more when he hears Melanie groan as well, before she begins to walk away.

"Tim, can I ride with you? I don't want to stay any more."

"Be my guest. Maybe we can convince the driver to charge him by the passenger. Daisy, you coming?"

Jon sighs and steps away from Gerry, pulling his wallet out when a cab rolls to a stop before Melanie and Tim.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The idea of four walls and a door as a sanctuary is laughable in the world they move in, but home is home, and it's more about a feeling than it is about a space.

"Please don't go after them." Jon's voice is almost too quiet in the thick darkness of the room, but Gerry can taste the desperate intensity in the words just as clearly as if they'd been pressed to his lips.

"Why would I?" he asks, like the thought wasn't the first thing on his mind as soon as Jon ended his tale. It's not like he can pay them back for what they did to him, keeping him from his rest just to use him, but _fuck_ it would be satisfying.

"Gerry."

It's the emotions poured in it rather than the name, what makes Gerry feel like the breath has been punched out of him. 

It's heavy with a sort of devotion Gerry's never been on the receiving end of, but that he's tasted in Jon's words before, sweetening Martin's name like a breathless prayer.

It's new.

It's terrifying. 

It's intoxicating.

"Say my name again."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Won't you look at that." The voice that reaches Gerry's ears when he climbs the last step out of the Archives makes Gerry freeze on his spot.

He's heard it a thousand times before, reading his last, most _intimate_ moments like they were a particularly boring instruction manual, tearing him from the painful, burning dormancy of the book for another round of questioning.

"That sneaky bastard." Julia shakes her head with a disbelieving cackle. "Dear Gerard, long time no see. Sorry, it's 'Gerry' now, isn't it?" She was always the one asking the questions, impatient and snappy whenever Gerry took too long to answer.

Gerry snorts, his mouth twitching into a smile. These two are opportunistic hunters if he's ever seen any, a pair of hyenas looking for lonely prey. 

"This is very convenient, you know?" Gerry cracks his neck. He's never killed hunters before; Gertrude always thought they were better left alone, since they usually went after other avatars. It's just fitting that Gerry's always been good at learning on the fly. "I promised Jon I wouldn't go looking for you. Didn't say anything about what would happen if you found me."

"Oh, you _promised_ him? How _sweet_." Julia smirks as she moves, her eyes glued to him as she flanks him. "How did he get you like this, huh? You were much more useful when you were pocket-sized, let's go back to that."

"I hate to disappoint." Gerry focuses on her. She's younger, faster than Trevor. Her neck is also very thin, and he Knows she favors her right side, and forgets to watch her legs. It's just a matter of getting a good kick in-

"Let's just kill him. He's no good to us like this, and who knows what he is now." Trevor is at his other side, no doubt giving him the same evaluation he just gave Julia. "One less monster."

"Oh yes, that's your whole thing, isn't it?" Gerry arches an eyebrow. "Pretending you're doing this to save people, and not because you're just another pair of hungry dogs."

"Better than just playing house with the monsters, if you ask me. How's dear sweet Jon?"

"Doesn't it worry you?" Gerry ignores Julia's taunts, looking at Trevor instead. That always did irk her when she interrogated him. "She doesn't have the best track record with parents, if I were you, I'd be concerned about ending like Robert Montauk."

That does it.

Julia launches at him with a roar, and Gerry has barely enough time to plant his feet to catch her- before a burst of fog shoots out of nowhere between them and Julia skids to a stop inches from touching it.

"I'm going to have to ask you two to leave the premises, please." The three of them freeze as the fog dissipates, leaving behind only Martin's grey, cold-eyed form. Gerry feels his mind kicking into overdrive because this is bad in _so many_ levels. First and foremost, Martin and the hunters are in the same place at the same time, and that's less than ideal. Then there is the fact that Martin just came _out_ of the Lonely, and-

"Who the hell are you?" Julia goes to push Martin aside, pulling her hand back as if burned when it goes right through him. "What-"

"Out." Martin says, his eyes hard behind his glasses. "Unless you want to wait for the others, in which case feel free to stay, they should be here soon."

Gerry smirks at the nervous look that passes between the two. Of course they wouldn't like to be the outnumbered ones.

"Remember how you used to ask me about the monsters? I'll give you a freebie, for old time's sake," he says, stepping forward to stand next to Martin. "You _don't_ want to wait."

"Real cute." Julia bares her teeth at him, and Trevor narrows his eyes. She then whips around on her heel and walks towards the door, only stopping for long enough for Trevor to reach her, and Gerry watches them go with a bitter smile. 

The doors closing after them is almost deafening in the silence left behind. Out the corner of his eye Gerry can see Martin start fidgeting, and he takes a deep, calming breath before turning to face him. It's alright. Martin is- he's here, he just has to pull him back.

"Did you really call anyone else?" Gerry asks.

Martin rolls his eyes, and Gerry notices with a pang of guilt that they're a cool, muted gray, despite the interaction. "Of course not. But I had to get them out, and I heard Tim say that Daisy alone was enough to send them running. Figured the idea of more people would only be more effective."

"I could've taken them," Gerry shrugs. Then, and his voice has grown a bit weaker, "I didn't know you could go into the Lonely now."

Martin looks down at the fog rolling around him like he's seeing it for the first time. "Hm. I didn't notice I was in, actually."

"That's- Martin, that's worse." Gerry grimaces. Martin is still human -as far as he can See- but only barely so.

"Is it?" Martin asks, and his contour is starting to blur and fade again, like a mirror fogging up. "Stay here today, will you? I'm sure Jon will be happy to have you."

"Martin, please-"

But he's gone.

Gerry stares for a moment at the spot he disappeared on, but eventually he gives a long, defeated sigh as he starts the way back down the stairs to the Archives. 

Sending the hunters running no longer feels like a victory.


	16. Chapter 16

**XVI**

Gerry closes the door to Jon's office with a pleased smile, pushing his hair back into place.

"I must admit-" Tim says, immediately souring Gerry's mood. He's sitting behind a desk with his feet up on it, looking at him with a thoughtful frown. "I've known him for seven years, and I never thought I'd see the day he'd have a make out session in his office."

"Well, you never finish getting to know people. Did you need anything?" Gerry arches an eyebrow. 

"Is Melanie going out with you today?" Tim asks, and Gerry scowls.

"How is that any of your business?"

Tim rolls his eyes, swinging his legs off the desk and climbing to his feet. "Apparently it's my business because Martin had to save your sorry ass from the hunters the other day, and now we _have_ to have a buddy system, so thank you for that."

Oh. Oh, _no_.

It suddenly makes _a lot_ of sense, why Jon pulled him back for a last, heavier kiss. Gerry feels like he's been had, and he somehow knows if he were to march back into the office to ask for an explanation, he would find an empty room.

"I don't need a babysitter, Stoker, and I _definitely_ don't want you around meddling in my investigations." Gerry turns to head for the door, gritting his teeth when Tim comes to stand before him again. "Did Jon put you up to this? Because-"

"Don't be stupid." Tim snorts. "I couldn't care less about _him_ -"

Gerry rolls his eyes. "Why don't you try selling that one to someone who didn't see you vaporize Manuela Domínguez?"

"-but Martin cares that you don't get killed, for some reason." Tim speaks louder to cover Gerry's words. "So you're going to have to _suck it up_ , because I'm coming with you whether you like it or not."

Gerry crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against Melanie's desk. "You have _no idea_ how close I am to killing you every time you speak, Stoker."

"Why don't you try selling that to someone who doesn't know how whipped you are, Keay?" Tim's grin turns smug and he leans forward. "You can't touch me."

Gerry has to remind himself really quickly that decking him in the face wouldn't even bring the satisfaction of breaking something, and worse: it would make both Martin and Jon angry at him. It should be a relief, really, that Martin has a friend as dedicated to him as Tim. 

It probably would be, if said friend wasn't this much of an asshole.

"Oh, they know you. They'll forgive me." Gerry narrows his eyes. "I just need to find a good excuse."

"So! Where are we going today, pal?"

\-------------------------------------------------------------

The door to the office opens silently, and Jon has a spare moment to be impressed at Daisy’s handiwork again.

The room is both empty and silent, and Jon feels a pang of pain when he realizes Martin isn't... Gerry has been by the flat a couple times -much to Tim’s annoyance-, but there’s no sign of him other than the thick fog that seems to linger in any space Martin has claimed as his own.

“Martin?” he calls out softly; the fog swirls in tantalizing spirals, disturbed both by the open door and his passage through it and gathered more thickly around the imposing mahogany desk. “A- are you here?” 

There is no answer; the dense fog drifts away from the desk like pushed by an unseen wind. Jon sighs. He could- he could call on the Eye. Nothing should be hidden from him, here at his place of power. He could See Martin, no matter how tight a grasp the Lonely has on him.

“But you don’t want me to See you, do you?” he mutters, more to himself than to the flaky idea of Martin’s presence. “This is- It wouldn’t be fair to intervene just because I miss you. I- I trust you’ll let me know if you need me.”

He turns away then, because Martin’s memory bites at his core like a rabid dog.

It feels like he last saw him was an eternity ago, instead of just two months or so. It has occurred to Jon before that they don’t work on the same time as the rest of the world anymore. Theirs is a time measured not in minutes, but in losses. 

“Enough. I- that’s enough.” A tape recorder clicks to life somewhere in the office, and Jon smiles, grateful. “Yes, thank you. Just… just a slip.”

He feels like a magnet that is facing the wrong pole, as he begins moving across the office.

Something in his chest pulls at him when he takes a step in a direction it doesn’t like; the desk calls at him, no doubt full of statements and tapes the Eye considers inoffensive. When he moves towards the stationary cabinet by the corner of the room, it feels like his feet weigh a ton each, like the floor has become sticky and viscous and unwilling to let him go. Jon closes his eyes; maybe it’ll help if he doesn’t see where he’s going?

When he opens them again he’s standing at the threshold, facing the corridor.

“Harder than I thought…” Jon mutters under his breath, before turning to the office. At least he knows he’s on the right track now.

_‘What are you looking for?’_

“What _am_ I looking for?” Jon mutters to himself, before he turns towards the cabinet again. “It’s there, isn’t it? The thing you don’t want me to see.”

_‘There’s nothing in there. Just old papers, and some tapes.’_

Jon nods. “Yes. Yes, that’s what I need.” Or that’s what the Eye doesn’t want him to have, and if Gerry’s right, that’s exactly what he should be trying to get.

It feels like a year before Jon takes the last of the ten steps that separate the door from the cabinet, and he pulls the doors open like they weigh a ton each. They slide noiselessly on their hinges, revealing the filing boxes full of yellowed paper, and a single cardboard box bull of shiny black tapes.

Jon’s hand hovers over them for an eternity before he shoves it in with a clatter of plastic against plastic. It comes back out with a tape held tightly in its grip, and for a moment Jon thinks of fishing birds, diving in from hundreds of feet in the air to catch unsuspecting prey.

_’Is that what you wanted?’_

“Yes. This- this is the one I wanted. The one I need.” Jon feels a surge of dark triumph looking at the unassuming tape. Whatever could be so important that the Watcher is so desperate to keep from-

The tape slips from Jon’s left hand, but his right comes to catch it awkwardly; his burned fingers twitching and spasming as his whole hand cramps in pain, and for a moment Jon is afraid he’s going to drop it in the pile again and lose it forever.

The doors to the cabinet swing closed with a slam.

Jon jumps back a little, giving the room another once-over. It looks just as empty as before, swirling fog and unfinished paperwork on the desk. 

“...Martin?” he asks again, a little more hopeful this time. Maybe the office was never empty, maybe… He takes a step towards the desk. Is he imagining the scent of tea, the sound of rustling footsteps echoing his own? “Martin, are you here?”

_’You need to leave, Jon.’_

He does, doesn’t he? His hands _want_ to let go of the tape, to chuck it out the window and hope a car runs over it and turns it into a million pieces. Whatever it contains, it’s dangerous, and he _needs_ to hear it. The faster he does it, the better.

Before he closes the door behind himself, he gives the desk another look. He could swear there’s a figure profiled in the fog, but then again his wistful thinking has gotten the best of him before.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

"You must be Martin then," says a clearly amused voice as he closes the door to the office, without locking it, because apparently that's as unnecessary as it is useless. "I must say, Peter definitely wasn't exaggerating."

Martin heaves a long-suffering sigh. He shouldn't have come today. The thought that Tim or Gerry would look for him at the flat was really the only thing that kept him from staying there.

Jon's visit last morning left him shaken, and he's been trying to call the Lonely back ever since without great results to speak of. It's a bit impressive how loving can complicate things so much, even when Martin is only faintly aware of what loving means anymore. A little like watching trees shake under a stiff breeze, but not feeling anything against his skin.

"Well, there's no need for that." The man chuckles when Martin finally lifts his gaze to him. He's _old_ , is the first thing Martin thinks. Wrinkled and either extremely short or hunched over by age, the only thing suggestive of life is the glint of mischief in his sky-blue eyes. "I'm merely visiting, I'll let you go back to trying to drown in your own misery in just a minute, see?"

"Who are you again?" Martin arches an eyebrow. Manners are an effort he's not willing to make right now.

"Ah, of course. I forgot, my apologies." The man extends a small, wrinkly hand that Martin looks at pointedly for a few moments, before it's retracted. "Should've known, I suppose. Simon Fairchild, I trust you've heard of me?"

Martin has, a lot. Perhaps in the past the name would've been enough to scare him. Now he just stares at him warily, and feels the fog curl around him almost protectively. 

"What are you doing here?" Martin asks. "I told Peter I didn't need any more convincing. I believe him."

"Do you?" Simon's eyes spark with something that reminds Martin of years ago, when Sasha -not Sasha, never Sasha, probably- teased him about a crush over the rim of a cup of coffee.

"Does it matter?" 

"I rather think that's up to you, don't you?" Simon leans against the wall across from him, tapping his cane against his thigh. His entire posture is like a tightly coiled spring, ready to bounce into action at any moment with an energy disproportionate to his age. "But no. I was brought in as an impartial judge, so to speak. Wagers can get messy, between those two."

Martin sighs again, feeling the start of a migraine blossoming behind his eyes and yearning for the cool, soft embrace of the fog. "Listen, I have no idea what you're talking about. Please just say your piece and go."

"Hmmm I suppose that was it, if you look at it purely in terms of what Peter asked. You're well and truly taken, aren't you?" The man's fingers tap impatiently against the length of the polished cane. "Humor an old man, if you will. Since you're apparently convinced of Peter's little theory, what do you make of it?"

"I didn't take you for someone who'd care." Martin thinks back at the paperwork he's been completely useless at finishing ever since Jon stumbled in yesterday, and he's suddenly struck by the futility of it. Will anyone even mind if he doesn't finish it? If he fades away and leaves behind only the slight scent of humidity and salt on the half filled forms?

"Oh, I don't. Not really." Simon grins when Martin looks up at him again. "But it makes for good conversation, and I find that corralling you lonely folk into idle chat is very amusing."

"Hm. What do you want to hear, then?" Martin shrugs. "There is another fear, and it's apparently bigger and meaner than the ones we already have, because that's just what we need it seems."

"That just about covers it."

"I guess my only question is... why is Peter the only one that seems interested in stopping it?" Martin scowls. The question has been fluttering around in his mind for a while now, a remnant of his connection to the Eye probably. "I get that Elias doesn't believe him, but you apparently do. Why don't you care?"

"I'm afraid I don't really care for anything at all, lad, not really." Simon shrugs with an unapologetic smile. "Nothing, no one really matters in the end, does it? We're merely... pieces. Insignificant in the face of the great, grand everything."

"That's a very lonely way of thinking."

"The overlap again, I suppose. Our patrons aren't really that different, don't you think Martin?"

"My question stands. If the Lonely wants to stop this new fear-"

"You're presuming an awful lot there." Simon gives him a knowing grin."I hardly think the Lonely wants to stop anything. This is all Peter's endeavor. And yours, of course."

"Mine." Martin sighs.

"Don't think the irony's lost on me, by the way. Two followers of the Forsaken, trying to save the world? You can't write a joke like that."

Martin arches an eyebrow. "What's the punchline?" 

"Why, that no matter how much your entire existence is based around not caring, you very much do, it seems."

Martin rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "I used to." And he did, didn't he? Simon is not entirely wrong, it's a dark, bitter joke that Martin chose to sacrifice his humanity out of love. Is he still doing this for that reason, or is he just going along with it now because there's really nothing else to do anymore? With the fog wrapped so tightly around him that he can't see further than a step ahead, is there even a path to deviate from anymore?

"Martin?" Gerry's voice washes over him like a pail of cold water, and Martin flinches. The man is frozen at the end of the corridor, no doubt on his way to the office to try and wrest him out of the Forsaken again. His eyes are narrowed in suspicion as they jump from him to Simon, and Martin tenses a bit more. "Everything alright?"

"And you must be Peter's little headache." Simon's face lights up in delight.

"Simon Fairchild." Gerry doesn't really ask, stepping up to the two of them with steady, confident footsteps. Martin remembers quite abruptly that he too is a creature of the Eye, and this is very much his home turf. "What are you here for?"

"You're not the slightest bit intimidated, are you?" Simon chuckles. Martin's ears pop, and he focuses on Gerry's hand squeezing his arm to ignore the sudden nausea. "I can see why Peter is so annoyed with you."

"I'm flattered." Gerry says dryly. "Need me to show you the way out? I'm sure Martin needs to get back to work."

"Hm… I _was_ planning on just leaving, but I suppose it's always good to stockpile on favors." Simon's eyes glint mischievously again as he pushes off the wall. It's sudden reminder that he's not merely a kooky old man having fun at Martin's expense.

"I'm sure Simon can find the exit by himself, actually." Martin says firmly, taking a step forward. Whatever is Gery thinking anyways, squaring up to Simon Fairchild himself? He _has_ to have heard of him, he has to know how insanely _dangerous_ he is. "And I think we're done with our chat, too."

Simon being on Peter's side probably means he will not hurt Martin, but he somehow doubts Gerry will be granted the same courtesy.

"See what I mean?" Simon chuckles. "Can't write a joke like that."

Martin rolls his eyes, but at least the man is focused on him. He takes another step to position himself firmly between the two of them. "You've seen whatever it was Peter wanted you to see, haven't you?"

"And a bit more too. Just a delightful conversation, if I do say so myself." The tip of the cane taps against the polished hardwood floors, one, two, three. "Hope to have another one soon. Have a nice evening, Martin."

He walks away then without sparing them another look, with the familiarity of one who's traversed these corridors countless times.

"Don't forget to close the window." Gerry says in a low grunt, and Martin rounds on him.

" _Shut up_." Martin snaps. "What were you _thinking_?"

Gerry arches a pierced eyebrow, his eyes unimpressed. "Unbelievably stupid, huh? Just up and having a chat with an avatar of the Vast. Can't think why anyone would-"

"Oh, cut it." Martin rolls his eyes. "What do you want?"

It takes a moment, but Gerry seems to deflate. "I wanted to check on you. Maybe ask you to call Tim off."

"Yes, because this really convinced me you don't need someone to keep you out of trouble."

"Implying Tim is not trouble." Gerry snorts. His lips remain curled in something that can't quite be called a smile, but almost the suggestion of one. "You're looking a bit more like yourself."

"...I guess I am." Martin sighs; his hands look a bit less blurred, and he guesses the rest of him does too. "That's not necessarily a good thing."

"It is in my books." Gerry shrugs. "Do you- should I leave?"

Martin arches an eyebrow. "Are you really asking for my opinion on the matter?"

Gerry's smile comes in full now, and it's blinding. It's easy to see why Jon fell in love with him; they deserve each other.

"I had to at least pretend, didn't I?"

\-------------------------------------------------------------

"Is that the same tape you've been staring at since yesterday?" Helen asks, her voice echoing curiously from somewhere in Jon's desk.

His mouth twitches into a smile, and he pulls the drawer open to see Helen's face peeking out from the bottom-turned-door. "Have you been watching me?"

Helen gives him a sharp smile, all fractured, amused angles. "Isn't that what one does here?"

"I suppose." Jon nods simply. There is not much that can be done to stop Helen from popping in wherever she wants to, really. One just has to deal with her; at least she's noticeably less prone to stabbing than her predecessor.

"Well, why haven't you listened to it?"

"Someone doesn't want me to, I think." 

"Which one?" Helen asks, and Jon gives it a moment's thought.

He doesn't _not_ want to listen to the tape, which probably takes the Mother of Puppets off the equation. Instead, it feels like every particle in his body -a body that he's very aware was kept from death by the Beholding- is recoiling at the idea of pressing that button. Perhaps it would be easier, Jon thinks, if he hadn't allowed himself to change this far. 

"The Eye, I think. Whatever's in there, it doesn't particularly want me to know." 

"I thought the tapes were yours." Helen hums thoughtfully; it's several frequencies and rhythms at the same time, and Jon feels the beginnings of a headache start to pound at his temples. 

"They are," Jon says. _'But I am the Eye's,'_ he doesn't add. It's not something he wants to declare. Not something he wants to call. His patron already has much too tight a grip on him without him declaring allegiance.

"Hm. Well, you only had to ask, dear." Helen grins. 

A long fingered hand climbs its way out of the drawer like a flesh-colored spider, and Jon can't help but to snort in amusement. This is probably the only thing the entities could never plan ahead for. 

"Thank you, Helen," he says as a too-sharp finger presses down on the play button, before the hand retreats back into the drawer. 

"My pleasure." Helen's laughter echoes around the inside of the drawer as it slides shut on its own. 

_'Right. No use putting it off further.'_ Gertrude's voice is dry and businesslike as usual, and something in Jon immediately screams for him to throw himself against the tape, stop it. 

This is the traitor, who never called herself the Archivist but used their powers to her own gain. The one that sought knowledge not to add to the Archives but to destroy the delicate balance of the entities, to sow war and destruction under the banner of the Eye in hopes of painting a target at its core. This is the one that hurt his Gerry, left him behind like a broken toy, bound into painful non-existence. This is the Enemy, turn it _off_!

Jon doesn't. Instead, he focuses on his predecessor's words to fend off the Eye's insidious whispers. 

_'And so Eric Delano ended.'_

_Oh._

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Click.

"Oh. Hi." Martin lifts the stack of papers to reveal the tape recorder waiting underneath. "You know? I've always wanted to catch one of you on the move. I put those papers there ten minutes ago and you weren't under them." He taps the tape recorder like one would boop a cat's nose, and the device clicks contentedly.

It's been... an odd week. Between Jon's visit, having to actually speak to Tim to convince him of keeping an eye on Gerry, and then Gerry himself coming to try and pick a fight with Simon, he's feeling like he's standing with a foot on each side of the line.

The Lonely still has its hooks in him, enough so that Martin _wants_ it back, but not enough that he can actually walk in and out of it like he did when the Hunters were threatening Gerry.

"Is that what you're here for? Do you want me to talk about my state?" he asks the recorder. "That's really the only thing I've got now. No new statements, no-"

A suspicion starts taking shape in his mind, and he narrows his eyes. "Peter? Are you-" The door to the office flies open, and Martin jumps back and to his feet, heart hammering in his chest. "Who-?!"

"Martin?" Jon all but trips his way to the desk, and Martin takes him in with a concerned look. His face looks ashen, his lips almost white; his hair is a mess, like he's been running his hands through it, and his hands themselves are shaking. His eyes are wide and frantic, halfway through going back to his natural color and swimming with _something_ as he looks up at Martin. "I- it's great you're here, I-"

"If you're going to break into my office on the regular, I preferred the other way." Martin snaps; his heart's still racing, and he can feel the Lonely trying to pull him back. 

"The other- oh. So you _were_ here. I- I thought I heard your voice, I- I followed it instead of the Eye." 

"Jon-"

"Right. Right, I- sorry for startling you. It wasn't my intention." He looks a bit lost now, like the wind has been taken from under his sails, like he hadn't planned as far as finding him here. His gaze has always held weight, but as his eyes run over his face Martin feels like he's standing under a spotlight. "I- I've missed you."

Martin winces, the three words imbued with a meaning he doesn't know how to process.

"Jon-"

His eyes _burn_ on Martin's skin. Is this how his victims feel, or is the fear of being wanted different from the fear of being known? 

Jon reaches a still shaky hand towards him. "I'm- I know what you said, I- I trust you. I know you know what you're doing and Martin, you-" 

"Jon, what do you want?" This way is easier. It hurts, but he has to send him away. For his own good; for everyone's.

His hand drops, but Jon's eyes are still glued to his face like Jon's afraid if he stops looking for a single second, Martin will fade away.

"I think I found a way for us to leave the Institute."

"...What?" is all Martin can force out, his brain screeching to a halt. "Jon, what-"

"Gerry's father, he- he quit the Institute Martin. We could do it too." Jon sidesteps the desk, unsteady on his feet, just unsteady in general. Martin's mind is still trying to process the words.

"I- Gerry's father used to work here?"

"Martin, you're not _listening_!" Jon's hands clamp around his wrists, and Martin's mouth clips shut so fast he nearly bites his tongue off. "We could- we could _leave_."

"But- Jon, how?" The Beholding is not like the Lonely, you can't keep it at bay by being around other people, if anything that makes it worse. There will always be fear and suffering around, and as long as you can see it-

Oh. Oh, shit.

"...You're joking," Martin breathes out. It's the only thing that makes sense, because otherwise Jon would be suggesting-

"It's... I realize it's pretty drastic, but-"

"It _is_! Have you- did you tell the others or-"

"Uhm... n- not really." Jon's grip falters, like the breath has been punched out of him. "You're the first."

"I'm- why?" Martin asks. Perhaps the fact that he thinks he knows the answer is the scariest thing of them all.

"I thought-" just like that, Jon's hands drop from his wrists. "We could leave here, Martin."

"I- this is too much, where- Gerry, where is he?" Martin stutters out. He'll know if this is real, if it would work. He's been in this world for far longer than any of them and-

"He's by St. Paul's, with Melanie" Jon responds almost immediately, and even just the thought of Gerry seems to be enough to ground him a little. "They haven't found the Corruption book yet. They're- they're coming back now, but they're thinking of stopping for food."

"Stopping for- Jon he doesn't _know_?!" Martin runs a hand through his hair. All the fog is gone from the room, and dear lord, how he misses it. "Jon, what were you _thinking_?! Gouge your eyes out and just leave him to find you?"

"I haven't- he wasn't here," Jon mutters, averting his gaze. "Martin, it doesn't- Gerry's not tied to the Institute, he's tied to _me_ -"

"Yes, by the _Eye_!" Martin snaps. "What, you think it's going to let you keep him after you do this?!"

"I-"

"A-and then what? Is he just- what is he going to do? Just... take care of two blind men for the rest of his life? That isn't fair, not without asking him!" 

"What is the alternative, then?" Jon cuts in, and when Martin finally looks down at him, he looks positively _devastated_ , the eyes of a drowning man that sees a ship take the wrong turn. "What are we going to do, Martin?"

"... Don't do this, Jon," Martin sighs, and Jon flinches back like he's been slapped. "I can't- don't make it my choice. I can't choose for- for you, for him."

"Martin-"

"Could you even _survive_ at this point? Because- because if you die, he dies too. Have you thought about it?"

And what if he _did_? What if Jon did think about it, and he decided he'd rather be free, even if it meant not living? If everything Martin has done is for nothing, because saving the world has absolutely no meaning if Jon's not in it? If-

"Martin?" Jon's voice has a broken quality to it when it reaches him, and Martin opens his eyes -when did he close them?- to find that oh, the fog is back. "Martin, don't- please don't go."

"Please leave, Jon."

"I- What?"

Yes. This... this feels better. Even the heartbreak is numbed. What does it matter if Jon leaves him behind, if he's always been alone? If he _wants_ to be?

"Peter is bound to come back soon, Jon. I'd much rather he doesn't find you here." Martin exhales, and mist breezes past his lips. 

"I don't care. Martin, please- come and talk to Gerry with me. We can- we'll figure something out, we will."

"You made me a promise, Jon." Martin looks towards the door. "You said you trusted me."

"A- and I do! You know that, but Martin, I- we could go. Together, please-"

"I don't think it's something I want anymore." Martin shrugs. "And you need to respect that. I thought you'd moved on with him, I thought you'd leave me alone."

"Is- I don't believe it. I can't believe that's what you want." Jon's voice is soft like the caress of the fog on Martin's skin. This is it. This is- he could make him leave. Maybe forever, and if this crazy self-mutilation plan of his is right, maybe, just _maybe_ , he will be safe. 

"Compel me, then. Ask." Martin looks at him in the eye, and Jon averts his gaze almost immediately.

"I wouldn't. Not to you," he mumbles.

"Then you'll have to take me at my word, I suppose." Martin gestures to the door. "Please."

"...Martin, I'm so sorry."

Stab the knife in. Twist it. Anything it takes.

"I'm not." Martin's heart aches, but it feels cold and far away, like everything else. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Jon is antsy. 

It would be obvious even if Gerry couldn’t taste the anxiety in the quiet 'Thank you' that Jon gives after he helps him out of his coat. They usually talk on the way home, but this evening went by with Gerry narrating his and Melanie's hunt for the Corruption book to a mostly silent Jon.

It's... it's alright, he decides as he goes into the bathroom for a shower. Jon promised not to lie to him; if it's something he needs to know, then he trusts he will tell him. He's pretty much forgotten about it by the time he comes out in a cloud of steam, his hair still pinned up on a loose bun to keep it out of the way and wearing a loose t-shirt comfortable enough to sleep in.

Still, his stomach falls to the ground when a pair of arms come to wrap around his middle as he stands before the kitchen counter, brewing himself a cup of coffee.

"I'm here," Gerry says before Jon can even voice a question, because that's what matters. Anything else they can fix together. "What's bothering you? Did- is everything alright with Martin?" 

Jon's forehead comes to rest between his shoulder blades, and Gerry lays a hand over Jon's tangled fingers on his stomach.

" _Nothing_ is alright with Martin. But this- I- this is not about him."

"Then?" Gerry asks, even though he's got pretty clear feeling of who it is about. Jon shifts behind him to reach up and press a kiss on the back of his neck. "Jon-"

"I stole a tape from the Institute."

Gerry scowls. "I hardly think you can steal something that's yours, Jon."

"I'm- this one is not mine." Jon's arms tighten around him, and Gerry runs soothing circles with his thumb over the burn-smooth knuckles. "I- I think you should listen to it."

"Is it about me?" Is it about someone he couldn't save?

Jon steps back, and waits until Gerry's turned to face him to tentatively brush a hand against his. 

"It's- it's a Gertrude tape." Oh. Well, those are never easy. Gertrude is still a can of worms Gerry doesn't dare look too deeply into, she- "She's calling your father from the book."

Gerry freezes. 

The words echo around in his mind as he tries to connect them in a way he can process, in a way that he can deal with. How come his chest feels so heavy when there's not a heart in there?

"I'm- s- so he was in there after all," he says. His voice sounds strained, and he clears his throat, his gaze stubbornly fixed on Jon's collarbone. "I always wondered."

Jon says nothing, simply looks over to the little breakfast table tucked in against a corner. A single tape recorder waits there, like a miniature coffin containing the only remains of a man he never knew. 

"How did you find it?" Gerry asks, and fuck, his voice is hoarse again. "I- did it come to you?"

"The- I went into Martin's office yesterday after you left. It- I was looking for things the Eye didn't want me to see." Jon's free hand comes to rest at Gerry's hip, and Gerry can feel his gaze on him, trying to catch his eye. "You don't have to listen to it if you don't- I can tell you what he-"

"No," Gerry blurts out so suddenly it startles even himself. "I'm- I'll do it. "

"Would- I can leave if you want me to. I'll wait at the living room, or- please look at me?" Jon's voice sounds thin, almost begging, and Gerry shuts his eyes for a second just to get his bearings, before opening them again.

"I'll- stay. Please." 

Jon nods once, firmly. Gerry can't help but to marvel at the thought that all he needed to do was ask for what he wanted for Jon to do it. That Jon won't think he's weak for it.

The tape recorder still looks deceptively harmless when they come to sit at the table. Gerry lifts a hand to it, and is quietly surprised at how steady it is; is all the chaos confined only to his head?

"I'm here," Jon whispers by his side when he hesitates over the button. Gerry nods. It's- that's all that matters.

_Click._

\-------------------------------------------------------------

His father sounds like him, is all Gerry can think for the first few minutes. 

Not- not _exactly_ like him of course, but enough that if you heard them talk closely after the one another, you'd know they were related. There's a similar cadence to their words, a rhythm in the way they start their sentences, and- Jon's hand wraps around his again, and Gerry abruptly remembers to pay attention to the actual words being said.

_'You should've seen what she did to my body afterwards.'_

Ah.

It's... he's known she killed him for a long time, but the confirmation still hurts a little. Would his life have been any different if he'd found the page himself? Maybe a little less lonely. 

_'So why did she give me to you?'_

_'I- I don't know. She seemed to think it was a gift.'_

Gerry doesn't think he ever heard Gertrude sound so dubious, so lost. Not the woman that strolled into Pinhole Books and single-handedly got rid of his mother, the one who took him around the globe with her, hunting avatars, stoping rituals. 

He misses her, he thinks with a full sort of ache in his chest. What is it that Eric -his _father_ \- just said? Aware of the heartbreak, but not really feeling it. 

_'So? What did they not want me to know?'_ Gertrude asks in the tape, and Gerry's lips curl into a bitter smirk. Of course she wouldn't like to be kept in the dark. It's poetic, really.

_'I quit.'_

Everything in Gerry's mind comes to a screeching halt at those words. It's- you can't quit the Institute, he Knows that. The Beholding has its chosen tied to its place of power more tightly than any other entity.

But... but then why was the Eye so determined to not let Jon find this tape? If- if there's a way to get him out, to get Melanie and Martin out-

_'I want you to find my son. If Mary is- if she's gone, or worse, I want you to make sure he's alright.'_

...Oh.

"Turn it- turn it off," he blurts just as Gertrude concedes that he might be _useful_. "Jon-"

"Ger- are you alright?" The tape clicks to a sudden stop, and Gerry realizes he's closed his eyes only when he has to open them again to look at Jon. "I'm-"

"Gertrude knew." The words weigh like two lead blocks placed over his chest. He takes as deep a breath as he can, though it comes in shaky as he pushes his chair away from the table and leans on his knees, burying his face in his hands. "All that time- she knew what happened to him. And she never told me."

What else is new? She moved him across a board she never allowed him to see. You're not supposed to ask questions, _Gerard_ , you don't want to lean more into the Beholding than you _already_ are, do you? 

"Gerry, I'm-" Jon chair screeches against the floor when he stands from it to crouch before him, his face framed by the long black curtains of Gerry's hair. His hands stop a few inches short of reaching him; Jon hasn't hesitated to touch him for a while now, but teetering on the edge of a breakdown would do it, Gerry guesses. "Gertrude-"

"Don't. Please don't talk about her," Gerry interrupts, because he's not sure if Jon's words will be attacking or excusing Gertrude, and he can't for the life of him work out which he'd rather hear less.

"I won't, I'm- sorry." Jon's hands finally come to rest at his knees and he stays there immobile, just staring up at him like Gerry's all that's ever existed. He gets the odd, dispassionate thought that not many beings have been looked at this intensely by an Archivist and felt reassured instead of terrified. "I'm- I'm here."

"She never- I knew she'd known my father. I found a photograph of her old team, with Michael and Emma and h- but she never-" Gerry tries for another deep breath, but it feels like no air is actually going into his lungs, and he shoots to his feet so abruptly Jon almost topples back. "She was the last person to see him. She- she went to find me because he asked her to."

It's infuriating, to feel gratitude towards a man he never knew. To grieve a voice in a tape without the slightest hint of what Eric- what his father was really like. 

He's aware he's been pacing the room only when he stops, his back thumping harshly against the wall because at least physical pain is something he knows how to deal with. Jon comes to sit by his side when he slides down to the floor, like that day at the Institute so long ago when Jon got marked by the Flesh.

"He loved her." Gerry's voice is heavy and slow, like a drunk man trying to sort out through the hazy memories of past nights. "Even- she did all those things to him, and he still loved my mother."

"Did- did you notice?" Jon's voice is just a weak murmur, no Archivist here, just a man that cares for him, hard as it may be to believe.

"What?" Gerry darts a sideways look at him, tired. Jon's hands are stretched the slightest bit towards him, like he wants to touch him but doesn't dare to; his face is a mask of empathy, as sad for him as Gerry has never seen him look for himself.

"He- Eric... your father called you Gerry." Jon's lips curl into a small, careful smile, and Gerry breaks.

Surely he's too old an adult to crumble down in tears for the ghost of a man he never knew, but Jon clumsily reaches to wrap his arms around him, and Gerry thinks that maybe, just _maybe_ he can be weak for once, in this hug that feels like home.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

"We don't- you don't have to listen to the rest of it, if you don't want to." Jon's voice is almost too quiet, like he's afraid to break the silence they've fallen into. 

Gerry looks up at him from where he's resting his head on Jon's lap; the kitchen floor is unforgiving on his back and shoulders, but the slight discomfort helps in keeping him grounded. "Is it true?"

"Hm?" Jon pushes a lock of hair away from his face, and Gerry leans his cheek into his palm.

"Is there a way to quit?" Gerry asks. The shock of piercing, migraine-like pain that strikes his mind is enough of an answer. 

"I- apparently. It's not- I don't know if- I might be too far gone."

"What do you have to do?" It's on the tape, he knows, but he can't- maybe one day he'll be able to listen to the whole thing, but for now all he can think of is this pained ghost that only wanted to make sure his son was alright.

Jon exhales slowly through his teeth, before bringing his free hand up to his face and making a plucking motion with index and thumb just an inch from his eye.

"Oh." It makes sense, Gerry guesses. No eyes to behold with, problem solved. "Will you do it?"

"I'm- I can't leave Martin there." Jon sighs again, a bit more defeated this time. "I'm sorry, just-'

"I get it." Gerry shrugs, tangling his fingers with Jon's over his cheek. It's no good. Either all three get out, or no one does. "is that what happened then? He said no?"

Jon nods once, slowly. "I think it was too much for him, in his state. He- he was worried about you, though."

Huh. That's- logically, Gerry knows Martin has worried about him before. It's been twice now that Martin steps between him and an avatar with bad intentions. Still, it comes as a pleasant surprise that Martin cares not only when in the heat of the moment. 

"About me?" he asks, because it's a bit easier than to make heads or tails of everything he's feeling right now. "I'm not an Institute empl- oh. Huh. I guess it _is_ very likely that I'd die if you quit."

Jon scoffs. "I didn't- it's stupid, but I forgot all about that in the moment. I just- you're mine, you're not tied to the Institute. I forgot the Eye-"

Gerry snorts when Jon cuts himself abruptly. "What was that?"

"I'm- I didn't-" Jon sputters, his face growing red. "I didn't mean it that way, I'm-"

Gerry laughs, delighted.

It still hurts, the not-quite memory of the father that was ripped from him. The chain around all of them, and the terrible condition to break it off. The fact that Martin is keeping them at arm's length to try and save the world, when they'd much rather save him. 

But it all looks a lot less grim when watching Jon try to regain his composure after the slip. When he remembers that for once, he's fighting not just to harm the entities, but to keep the ones he cares for from them. When he thinks about how for the first time in his life, other people are interested in protecting _him_ for a change.

" _Stop_ laughing!" Jon snaps, smacking softly at Gerry's shoulder. "I didn't mean-"

"It's alright. You could've." Gerry catches his struggling wrist, and brings it up to his lips to lay a kiss on the palm of his hand. "I kind of am yours."

"I- what?" Jon freezes.

The problem with these things, Gerry decides, is that they're often painted as the culmination of a whole journey. The last thing you say before the credits roll, the last words on a final page. 

He doesn't want that, a tale of hardship with the suggestion of happiness at the very end. He wants his story to be a promise, a challenge to a world that, no matter how hard it tries, can't take this from him.

"I love you."


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! 
> 
> Thanks a lot for being patient with me during my little unannounced hiatus (originally I was going to post this chapter and then announce it, but I thought it would be a bit cruel to leave you with this mood for a whole month), my Bang fic is done and you'll be seeing it (along with the amazing art made by some amazing peeps) at some point after November 30th. It is also JonGerryMartin, in case you need another fix lol.
> 
> \-----
> 
> **CW for:**  
>  -self harm  
> -mentions (implications) of police brutality  
> -whatever the hell kind of self hatred Tim has going on
> 
> Detailed explanations at the end notes.

**XVII**

"That was a nasty one," Gerry says, running a hand through his hair a couple times. An understandable reaction, given that the floorboards of the attic they were trying to bust open to reach the Corruption book ended up collapsing on him in a shower of termites.

Still, Melanie rolls her eyes, and her lips curl into a smirk as she comes to bump his arm with her shoulder. "No creepy crawlies, you're still pretty."

"Well, obviously." Gerry flips his hair back into place, and Melanie tugs on it, when a couple locks whip -on purpose, she's sure- against her face. "Whose turn is it to pick dinner?"

"You don't even _need_ to eat!" Melanie groans, which is a pretty solid response to his question. 

"It's about the _bonding_ , firecracker." Gerry's voice is a slow, conciliatory tone carefully designed to rile her up, she knows from his teasing grin. "The human experience."

Melanie blinks. He blinks back. 

"You're _not_ hum-"

"What's that food your girlfriend loves and you hate?" He speaks over her, and she laughs. Definitely not her standard response to men interrupting her, but she'll let this one slip, she decides. "Hungarian? Yes. That's what I'm craving."

"You're an asshole, did you know that?"

They don't get Hungarian, in the end.

Instead, they stop by an ice-cream shop, which Melanie thinks is oddly fitting. It's what they got the first time they went out together; it only makes sense it's what they get on their last.

"You're quiet." Gerry sits next to her as she digs into her pint of caramel. She barely even gives him a glance, scrolling through pictures of herself and Georgie in her phone. "Are you okay?"

"I talked to Georgie," Melanie blurts out, because tact has never been her strong suit. 

"...Oh." Gerry's heavy hand comes to rest at her shoulder, and Melanie reflects for a second on how casually he touches her, and how comfortable she is with it. "Uh- everything alright?"

She scoops another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. It's- as alright as it's ever going to get, she supposes. Georgie didn't like it, but she understood. She even offered to do it, but Melanie didn't want that to be something she associated with her. 

Gerry's hand squeezes her shoulder, and she turns to look at him. He looks... incredibly dumb, looking at her with concern in his eyes and his mouth stained red, his cheek still stained with soot from the book they just burned. 

This is- it's the face of a friend. One she made herself, all her own. 

"You look like an extra in a cheap vampire movie." She smiles. It feels a bit weaker than she meant it, but... but she's maybe feeling a bit smaller than she planned. And maybe that's not a bad thing, to ask for help. To let herself be helped. "It'll be alright."

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Basira's not blind to how Hunt-like her connection to the Eye is. She doesn't like it, but it's fitting, she thinks grimly as the trail before her lights up in a warm yellow hue that reminds her of her favorite hijab, of the smell of freshly baked bread, of the soft sandy hue of Daisy's hair. 

Daisy's been hiding a lot lately, but it's of no use; Basira could find her at the end of the world if needed, even without- she hesitates calling them 'powers', because that feels like giving in, like accepting this metamorphosis that has been thrust upon her without so much as a by your leave. Still, they are there and they are hers, and she can follow the trail down into the tunnels, and around a couple bends. 

It leads straight into a dead end, where Daisy sits balled up against a corner, like a sickly dog that crawled down here to die. She looks... small. Emaciated even, Basira's old t-shirt hanging loosely off of shoulders that used to be tight with well-marked muscle. 

Basira stiffens when the Knowledge slams into her, clenching her fists by her sides. She won't be scared, she won't give it the satisfaction. 

"You're dying." The truth slips easily past her lips, and Basira hates it, hates it like the world that gave her Daisy only to tear them apart again and again. 

It takes a moment, but Daisy stirs and sits up to look at her with bloodshot eyes. "I have been for a while already. It's alright."

"It's _not_." Basira steps forward, coming to crouch before her. "I thought signing the contract had helped?"

"It slowed it down." Daisy leans back on the wall, her head dropping against her shoulder like her neck isn't strong enough to hold it. "But it would never have stopped it, I'm- I'm not you, or Jon. Beholding was never for me."

Basira crouches before her, and her shoulders feel even thinner than they looked, when she lays her hands on them. "Then you have to hunt."

Daisy's warm brown eyes fix on her, and Basira can read her next words in the slight furrow of her brow. 

"I don't want to."

"Daisy, you're _dying_."

"I know. I've known for a while." Daisy's too-bony hand comes to rest against Basira's cheek, and she almost flinches at how cold it feels. "I thought you knew too."

"I'm- I was looking for a way to stop it. I thought _you_ wanted to stop it!" It takes everything in her to not shake Daisy up, because this sounds like- "I didn't know you'd just _given up_."

"I haven't. I win, like this. I die as myself." Daisy gives her a weak smile. -everything in her looks weak, and Basira wants to _scream_. 

Getting Daisy back was already not a part of the plan, but losing her again is- "Dying is _not_ winning, Daisy."

"Isn't it what I deserve, though?" 

" _What_?"

"You know," Daisy says, and Basira isn't sure whether or not she means it as Capital 'K' know, but she knows perfectly well what she's referring to. 

"That wasn't yo-"

"Don't say that. Don't- don't try to make me a victim, Basira I- I hurt people. I _wanted_ to. The Hunt only gave me the tools, but-"

"Well, I knew." Basira snaps. "I _knew_ all that time, and I didn't do anything. Doesn't that mean I'm just as bad?!"

Daisy's warm, brown eyes pin her in place, full of love and resignation in equal measure. "Well... yes." 

And maybe she's right, Basira thinks. Maybe this is penance, for all the bad they've done. Maybe they're just lucky it took so long to catch up to them.

"I'm- no. Fuck that." She grits her teeth. "You- you can spend the rest of your life paying for it, but you can't _die_. How is this justice? How-"

"It's not meant to be fair, I think." Daisy grunts a little as she sits up straighter. "But I get to die as myself. Not- not the thing I chose to be, the thing I let hurt so many people. I get to die choosing not to hurt anyon-"

"Well- hunt monsters then! Pay it back stopping them, don't-" Basira stops abruptly, when she feels her throat tighten. If she keeps talking, her voice will break, and she doesn't want-

She'd been so _angry_ at Jon for feeding, but here she is begging Daisy to do the same like a hypocrite. Isn't that what has always boiled down to? Her morals unshakeable, until they come to this woman?

"Basira." Daisy pulls her down delicately, and Basira comes. "I want it this way."

"Don't hide from me," Basira whispers into her hair, holding her close to her chest. 

"I didn't want you to see me like this."

"I will find you. Always."

"I know." Daisy chuckles. Basira is aware this is the slightest bit selfish. Daisy won't die in her arms, so maybe as long as she never lets go... "I'm sorry."

"Don't." Basira squeezes her harder. "I'm- I get it. But I don't have to like it."

\----------------------------------------------------------------

"Are you sure you want this?" Gerry asks for what feels like the umpteenth time, and he's more than aware that he's doing it only to buy himself more time. 

The entire scene is almost too relaxed; the two of them sitting on the floor next to Melanie's cot -a monstrosity of pillows and quilt that Gerry's willing to bet hosts at least one or two knives-, a tub of half-demolished caramel ice cream between them. Just two friends having a chat.

Gerry's life has never been that simple, sadly. The awl sits deceptively light on his hand, belying the weight of the request.

"I do. It's- I want out. Of the Institute, at least." Melanie's knuckles whiten as her fists clench over the dark fabric of her jeans. "If I'm going to keep helping, then I want it to be my choice."

"If you do this, I'd much rather you stay out of this for good." Gerry's voice is dry, because if he lets any emotion in it, it will probably be despair. 

"That's nice, but you don't tell me what to do." Melanie shakes her head with a roll of her eyes. "Besides, you're going to need someone who's free of all this, if the Eye won't let us look into your boyfriend's marks."

"Melanie-"

Her grim smile is determined, and Gerry feels a fierce rush of protectiveness burn in his chest. For a moment he misses the dull pain of his existence in the skin book, because at least back then that was all he could feel.

It was a stupid oversight on his part, to think he would ever get to have something normal. Something for him, untainted by the world he was born in. 

"Well... alright, then."

There's disbelief and gratefulness in Melanie's eyes, like she recognizes the hesitation was for himself, and not a way to try and change her mind. 

"You'll do it?"

"What are friends for?" Gerry's smile feels stiff and foreign in his face. "Gouge your eyes out, call you an ambulance right after."

"Your typical sleepover." The edges of Melanie's grin are strained. For the briefest of moments, he thinks she might hug him. She doesn't, and he's both relieved and disappointed. Is their friendship even theirs, if it was born out of hatred for these things that took their will away? "Should I lay down?"

"...I guess so, yes." He sighs. "Don't you want to finish the ice cream?"

"Not really." Determination or not, Melanie's starting to look a bit green. "I'm... okay, let's do it."

She turns around so her back is facing him, before laying down so her head rests on his crossed calves. It's... Gerry had never considered her eyes, but now it's all he can pay attention to. Almond-shaped and perfectly contoured with eyeliner, her irises a darker brown than Jon's, so deep it's almost black. 

They're good eyes; they've kept watch for him during their hunts, caught sight of monsters just on the nick of time. They watched over him while Jon was in the Buried. The eyes of a friend. 

She deserves this, the choice, the freedom; he won't keep them from her, not even for his own peace of mind. 

How does one go about destroying someone's eyes permanently? Just jam it in and swirl it around, try to cause as much damage as possible? The Beholding is of course not volunteering any tips; instead showing him in excruciating clarity the agony it will provoke. 

He sees it like a movie, like a nightmare; Melanie screaming, her blood dripping down his hands. Is this how his father felt, did he try to fight the Watcher with thoughts of his infant son? 

_'No,'_ the Eye whispers in his mind. _'This is what your mother saw, when your father laid to sleep for the last time. Trusting, loving. Like her.'_

The awl drops from his shaky hands, missing her face by mere inches as Gerry throws himself back.

"Melanie, I can't."

\----------------------------------------------------------------

"Been a while since I've been here" Tim mumbles, giving a look around the office. 

It becomes clear to Jon then that he's not the only one that's nervous, although he can't for the life of him figure out why Tim would be. 

Why is _he_ nervous, even? Does he fear Tim's barbed jabs or the dull ache of guilt? Or is it just that Tim is a loose cannon, an open flame in the Archives that- oh. Of course.

"The Eye doesn't want you here." Jon smiles tiredly as he says it, and to both his surprise and relief, Tim mirrors the gesture. 

"That's just mean. It was so adamant on not letting me go before..." Tim taps his fingers in the desk, leaving little scorched marks on the wood after every touch. "Well, it's going to have to suck it up."

Jon nods. "A pity. I suppose there _is_ a reason you're here, though."

"You know? It used to make me mad, when you did that." Tim shrugs. "Well, everything you did made me mad, but that most of all."

"The..." Jon lets the word hang in the air, arching an eyebrow. 

Tim scoffs. A puff of white vapor erupts from his lips and dissipates towards the ceiling.

"The whole 'not asking questions' thing." He doesn't look at Jon as he says it, and Jon tries to focus on something that is not him, because if Tim wants to tell him this, he deserves not having it revealed beforehand. He ends up Knowing the names of every single carpenter that worked on making his desk, but at least it takes long enough for Tim to gather his thoughts. "It felt- it was a reminder of what you had become. What we were all becoming."

Jon frowns, confused. "You weren't an avatar of the Desolation back-"

"Are we sure of that? I'm- I had been- I wanted destruction since long before the Unknowing. Elias', the Archives'-" Tim's eyes meet his, and it's only then that Jon realizes how long it's been since that has happened. They're their usual dark brown, no dangerous orange glow, thankfully. Jon has- he's missed them. "Yours."

"Ah." Jon sighs. This is how it is now, isn't it? How it's always going to be.

"Yeah."

Silence falls over them again, heavy like a wet towel. Jon doesn't ask why Tim is here again; he's aware enough to recognize the diverting from before, and where it brought them.

"I'm- thank you for-" Jon starts, stops, clears his throat. "You know. Gerry. The hunters. Watching out for him when Melanie's not around."

Tim looks about as uncomfortable as Jon feels, so at least they're on equal -if uneven- footing.

"It's- Martin wanted me to." Tim crosses his arms over his chest, averting his gaze. "What- is that a thing? Those two?"

Jon sighs. "Martin is this close to becoming a Lonely avatar, Tim." Who said Tim was the only one who knew how to divert from uncomfortable lines of questioning?

Tim's face whips back to him at that, scowling fiercely. "He is, isn't he? Why is that? Why the fuck didn't you stop that when it started happening, Jon?"

"I tried my best, but I was in a comma," Jon says dryly, his words followed by a tense, thick silence.

The snort that escapes Tim's lips surprises Jon as much as it does Tim himself, apparently. "Nice to know I did fuck you up."

"For a while, yes." Jon shakes his head a little, the corner of his lips curling up in a resigned smile. "I'm- I suppose Martin hasn't told you, then."

"I suppose not," Tim repeats in an affected mockery of his voice. It's something he used to do _before_ , Jon realizes with a start. "About what?"

And really, it feels like a pity to weigh down the first civil conversation they've had in two years by bringing it up, but it's- Tim has a right to know. He deserves it. 

"About the Extinction."

"Hm. Was that meant to sound as ominous as it did?" Tim arches an eyebrow, and Jon shrugs.

"I mean, it _is_ called the Extinction; I doubt there's any way to give that title any levity." Jon sighs. This too feels like before, and it hurts just as much as the hostility. Maybe more. "Peter Lukas believes it's a fifteenth entity in the process of forming. The fear of humanity towards eradication at our own hands, towards dying out as a species, rather than individuals. The realization that we have brought on our own demise, and it's too late to change it now."

"And is it?"

"...Excuse me?" Jon frowns.

"Well, yes. If anyone could know, wouldn't that be you?" Tim asks again.

Oh. Right, of course.

Jon sighs. "It has been brought to my attention recently that there are some things the Beholder won't tell me about."

"Like your marks?"

"I'm- how do you know about that?" Jon frowns. Just how many people know about this thing the Eye is so adamant on not letting him see?

"I asked Martin about your safeword when he asked me to stick with your boyfriend." Tim shrugs. "Then I just did a quick head count. You're just missing one, aren't you?"

"The Lonely, yes."

"How convenient isn't it? Martin's sudden promotion." Tim mutters to himself, and Jon purses his lips.

"I'm well aware it's my fault, Tim, thank you."

Tim neither confirms nor denies it. He fidgets with his hands a little, squeezing his pinky finger flat between the pointer and thumb of his free hand, then rolling it back into shape. 

"So he's trying to get information?" He asks quietly after a couple minutes. 

"I- at first." Jon sighs. Isn't this the truth he's been trying to ignore for the past months, even though he Knows it's irrefutable? "It has him now, though. He- he just needs to choose."

"I hope you're right." 

"Hm?" Jon looks up, but Tim's still not looking at him, instead focused on the scorch marks on the desk.

"If he can choose, he will choose you." When Tim's eyes raise to him, there's the slightest spark of orange in their depths.

"I'm- Tim, I don't know if that's an option anymore." The thought has been on his mind for weeks now, since Martin turned him away. 

"He always finds a way to choose you, anyways."

\----------------------------------------------------------------

"That's- that's something." Melanie exhales softly through her parted lips. They're back to leaning on her cot, and she's pressed tight to Gerry's side; not holding him by any means, but close enough that she can feel it when his breathing _finally_ starts slowing down. "I didn't know."

It rains on her then just how painfully _little_ she knows about him. They know each other like penitent ghosts, no past and no future, just a present, and a sum of festering wounds far too painful to look at.

Gerry's startled cackle is dry and pained, and it draws Melanie out of her contemplations. "I think that's the point."

"I-"

"I'm sorry I couldn't do it." He lets his head fall back against the cot, groaning. "I'm not being very useful lately."

It's a very stupid thought, but it does sound like something Gerry would believe of himself. Lives his entire life trying to save people from the entities, gets right back into it as soon as he's raised from the dead. Melanie sort of knew already that he measured his value on how much he could help others, but this is a very clear indicator. 

Melanie sighs. "Don't. It's- I just wanted it to be you because- I trust you, I guess." She turns her head, even though Gerry's not looking at her.

"I- thank you, firecracker." It's such a dumb nickname, but it feels so different from stupid, _stupid_ Mel. "Should- I can call Helen, if you want?"

"It's alright. I don't think she liked that I'm quitting; she seemed a bit sad when I told her. I'll- I'll do it myself." The awl feels foreign in her shaky hand, but she grips it firmly. "You should get out, probably."

He lets out a long exhale, almost sagging against her side. "I'm- I'll stay," he says in the end.

"Are you sure? I'll- you can just go outside and call the ambulance after."

"No." Gerry brings a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "No, I- I prefer to stay. In case you need help."

"Yeah, that's- I might." Melanie takes a deep, wet breath to calm her speeding heart. He doesn't respond. When she looks at him out the corner of her eye, he's staring straight ahead, his lips pressed white in a thin line and a muscle twitching at his jaw. "Thank you."

A large, warm hand comes to wrap itself around her free one, and Melanie squeezes back as hard as she can. She's as afraid of the pain as she is of the prospect of freedom, but this at least is her choice, not Elias' trickery, not something feeding on her to turn her into something else. She won't be anyone's pawn anymore. 

She thinks of the Admiral's orange fur. The bright yellow of Helen's door. Gerry's stupid lovesick faces. The curve of Georgie's lips when she smiles, and the dimple on her right cheek.

Melanie strikes.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Truth is, Tim should've left a while ago, after he got the confirmation he was looking for. That Martin isn't just another victim, that his efforts to bring him back haven't worked not because Tim himself isn't enough, but because Martin has a reason and a _purpose_ to stay Lonely. 

That said purpose isn't just the undeserving _idiot_ before him.

It's- the familiarity's the worst part, in his opinion. Tim's stomach still burns whenever he looks at Jon and he's able to tell what he's thinking of just by the furrowing of his brow. 

It reminds him of stolen glances and hugs that lingered for just a second too long. Of dragging his new boss out of the Archives for a drink, just like he dragged him out of Research every Friday. Of reluctant smiles and bitten off chuckles after Tim's jokes. Of being asked to check on a statement and knowing immediately that Jon was nervous, and that he would do whatever it took to assuage it.

"Jon?" He asks, and the way the name rolls out of his mouth leaves behind an aftertastes of bitter ashes. "Could I have found Oliver Banks?"

The green glow starts slowly, just a spark of neon in the depths of Jon's dark eyes, burning brighter and brighter until it's taken over his gaze completely. 

"I- no. There- there were a lot of threads pulling you away from any real information about him." Jon sighs. He closes his eyes and rests his elbows on the desk, rubbing at his temples. "It makes sense, I suppose."

It does. Tim doesn't hold any love in his heart for the Desolation, but the fact that it has loosened the Spider's grip on him is most definitely something to be thankful for. It's ridiculous, that they live the kind of lives in which they have to be thankful for an entity at least being upfront about consuming their very being.

He... he often wonders if it might have been different, had he managed to find him. If they would've at least had a chance with some more information before everything went to shit. If maybe he's not as much to blame as-

"You aren't." Jon's voice pours over him like cold water over a fire, so abrupt that Tim flinches before looking back at him, and finding the green eyes fixed to his face with almost eerie focus. 

It takes him a moment to figure out just what the hell he's walking about, and when he finally does Tim knows he should be enraged at the violation, but all he can bring himself to feel is exhaustion. 

"I didn't know you could do that," he says, and every word bears the weight of the past four years.

"I'm sorry," Jon responds. Tim believes him. It doesn't matter. It hasn't mattered for a while.

The Desolation feeds on sorrow and loss as much as it does on rage, and there's plenty of both to go around in this office.

"I- Jon?" Tim frowns. Jon's warm brown skin has gone ashen, the scars in stark contrast to it. His eyes are still green and focused on something Tim can't see, and his entire frame shakes, his knuckles white around the edge of the desk. "Jon what-"

"Melanie, it's- she's-" Jon flinches and curls into himself, his face contorted into a rictus of pain that has Tim's stomach churning. "You have to go-" Jon's voice is strained now, like every word is being ripped out of him. 

"Jon-" Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. The lights in the office are flickering and Tim feels watched by a hundred thousand eyes, here in this place that _despises_ him for coming back after he served his purpose. Static sings in the air around them, and Tim may not have the Sight for these things, but he can recognize an avatar about to lose control. What's- what's that shit he and Daisy tell each other? What- "Jon, the- listen to the quiet, listen to-"

A lightning-sharp pain pierces into his brain-

_Danny's on the armchair- no, not him- was there ever really a Danny? And if so, isn't this him? Why are you so scared, Tim? It's just your little brother, aren't you just **thrilled** to see him?! Look at how well his skin fits him! _

_Look at how wide he's smiling -don't try to count his teeth-, he's just so happy to have you back! Why didn't you go see his performance at the theater? He was so excited to introduce you to all of his new friends, to show you just how it felt when his skin burst open at the seams-_

Jon's eyes are lit up like searchlights now, no pupil and no sclera, just green fire at their depths, and the depths of all the other eyes boiling open like blisters along his arms, his neck, his cheeks. 

"What are you doing? Cut it out!"

Jon opens his mouth, but it's the Archivist's voice that comes out. 

" _Isn't she beautiful? You've thought so from the time you first laid eyes on her. Her smiling lips, her knowing eyes, her face that fits just well on her skull. Her long, long, long fingers on your scalp as you tell her of all that makes you afraid, all that makes you Tim._

 _You love her in any and all ways she'll let you, what does she look like? What does she sound like? It surely doesn't matter as much as the fact that she loves you back, doesn't it? She lets you stay by her side, she listens to your woes, your suspicions. You mention the circus and she nods in understanding, but in her mind she's laughing, laughing, laughing. Do you hear it? Do you feel the caress of too long fingers as you lay your head on her chest? She was thinking of taking your skin nex-_ "

The door flies open, and Tim throws himself over the desk to keep Jon's eyes -all of them- on him when Basira appears at the threshold. 

"What the hell is going on?! I- he's in my hea-"

"Get out!" Tim shouts "Find Melanie! Make sure she's done!" Basira whips around immediately, disappearing down the corridor. "Jon, _calm down_!"

_He orders you to look- you're so **angry** , you hate him with the same fierce devotion you had for him. His face is an anchor amongst the chaos around you, you recognize those eyes, that nose, those furrowed brows and that mouth twisting around a plea. _

_This is his fault. He brought you here, he pushed you away when you needed him, when your fear burned like a furnace in your chest and you didn't know what you were becoming. Now he's here, and he has the gall to demand even more from you. What else could he take? Is there anything left of you? The worst part, you think, is that his face is his in a way hers and Danny's weren't. This is him -you can count the teeth if you want- and you were doomed to die here surrounded in boiling wax, from the moment you first laid eyes on this calamity of a man._

"Stop it!" he screams. His whole skin hurts, every inch alight in a flare of pain As it's _torn_ from his body, and he can't- he can't remember his name, he- what does he look like? It hurts, everything- there's fire licking at his skin -his skin is _not there_ \- and he knows that shouldn't hurt anymore but it does and _he can't remember his name_. "Jon, snap out of it!"

_Manuela Dominguez burns, and you were the one to set her aflame. You feel her pain, you **revel** on it, the taste of her terror finer than a five course meal. This is what you are now. You're destruction, you're pain, you're nothing but the fear you can cause. She would be disgusted at what you have become, and Danny would too. How could you ever think you could save Martin, when all you can do is **hurt**? Look at yourself -whoever that is, without your skin, without your name-, what have you got to offer? What-_

"Jon!" he clings tightly to the monster -the man- thrashing so wildly in his grip that they both topple to the floor. The Beholding still spears at his mind, and he doesn't- _what should he do?!_ Will they be able to get him back, if Jon loses control?

_You do not care about that. All you are is pain, all you are is hatred, all-_

"Come back, you _idiot_!" Tim shakes him. His hands are smoking, and so is the wooden floor around them, and Jon's skin boils with eyes and blisters in equal measure. "I will _burn_ the place down! I will kill us both again!" 

He can't- he can't let him go, he- Sasha's gone, and Martin's leaving, and- Tim can't be the last one standing, he just _can't_. 

"Don't-" Tim From Before could've reached Jon, he has no doubt. The Tim that wasn't just pain, that loved, that laughed, that wanted to comfort rather than hurt; but that Tim is gone forever, and he _can't reach him_. "Jon please-"

"...Tim?" The quiet voice is barely audible over the roaring of the flames, and Tim flinches back like his name had been a blow. Jon's irises are dark again, and the dozens of eyes that opened along every inch of exposed skin are slowly, reluctantly closing. "Tim, what-"

He doesn't hear much more, as he rushes out if the office and slams the door shut behind him. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Melanie looks almost impossibly tiny as the paramedics wheel her away from Gerry and Basira, and up into the ambulance. Even from this far up, watching from the safety of his- of Peter's- of Elias' office, Martin can see two things. 

The first is the carnage that's all that's left of her eyes, the blood strikingly bright where it's splashed across her face like a mask. 

The second is the pained smile in her face, and Martin feels a stir of envy at his chest. She's free. There was still enough human left in her to walk away from this nightmare, from all of them. 

Martin feels the Lonely before he hears the static of Peter stepping out of it. The fog curls around his ankles like a cat looking for attention, and isn't that funny, the Lonely wanting to be noticed?

It probably isn't. 

"Looking a bit grim there, aren't you?" Peter asks. Martin merely inclines his head in acknowledgement, because he knows the man will only become more insistent if he doesn't answer. "Did you feel any of that?"

"Her leaving?" Martin asks

"And the Archivist losing control. He was trying to reign her back in, to heal her eyes before she could destroy them enough." Peter's gaze is heavy on his face, and he seems pleased that he can't find what he's looking for. "Your friend Timothy got quite reckless at the Archives, but in the end he managed to calm him down."

"Hm." What else is he supposed to say? Of course Tim was able to anchor Jon. They've always been close, even when they don't trust each other. Tim can pretend to despise Jon all he wants, but Martin knows him far too well. Both of them, actually. "Did you need anything?"

He feels Peter's smile more than he sees it, the man's smugness coming off of him in waves. "I was only curious as to whether or not you'd been affected, I suppose."

Martin shrugs. "I wasn't. I was recording a statement, the one with the mirror house." The tape recorder is still on his desk, the tape whirring softly inside.

"That's wonderful news, actually. It means we're ready."

He _does_ turn to Peter at that. "Already?"

"Correct. We just need- I'm getting a map made for us right as we speak." Again, Peter's smug smile is palpable in his voice. "The tunnels are a bit of a mess, aren't they?"

"There's nothing in the tunnels. Jon searched them all." Martin arches an eyebrow, but Peter merely smiles wider.

"He didn't know much back then, did he?" He asks. "The device we need is at the center of the maze. You can't reach it unless you know where you're going."

"And you do?"

"I will. And you will too."

"...Will I be coming back?" Martin asks, almost as an afterthought. Down at the street Gerry has taken a seat on the Institute's front steps, and he too looks almost tiny in his exhaustion, his head hanging low and his shoulders hunched. 

"Does it matter?"

Basira hesitates by his side for a moment, before she too sits down, and Gerry's head tilts a little towards her.

"I guess it doesn't."

"Excellent."

Martin waits until Peter has stepped back into the Lonely, until he can no longer feel his presence even when he reaches in with a tendril of fog.

The last statement of Adelard Dekker -a part of him aches in sympathy at the fact that Gertrude never got to say goodbye properly- looks almost innocuous when he pulls it out of the locked drawer and folds it carefully under the tape recorder. 

He stares at the device for a couple seconds, trying to figure out what would be a good end to a story. To _his_ story. 

"Goodbye."

_Click._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Melanie escapes the institute by the same means she used in canon, that being self-mutilation
> 
> -Daisy is pretty much willingly letting herself die at this point. Mentions of her past are made in Basira's section
> 
> -Tim is repeatedly attacked by the Beholding while he tries to call Jon back, getting memories of Not!Sasha and Danny implanted into his head to hurt him, as well as the pain they experienced when being taken by the Stranger. He also hates on himself a whole lot for becoming an avatar
> 
> If you need a little palate cleanser, I got prompted to write a POV reversal of last chapter's final scene, [which you can find here.](https://that-one-girl-behind-you.tumblr.com/post/628522305651392512/someone-asked-about-jons-reaction-to-gerrys)
> 
> Have a good weekend!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one!
> 
> CW for canon-typical violence, body horror and gore. Also, some characters talk about the not so great mental state they were in, including suicide ideation.

**XVIII**

_"Nah. I convinced them I'm not suicidal, mostly because, you know, I'm not? Anyways, they're letting me go this weekend. I'll call you when I'm settled, we'll have a sleepover that doesn't involve eye gouging, how about that?" Melanie smirks in his direction, and Gerry rolls his eyes._

_"That's my preferred kind of sleepover."_

_"You have very low standards," Tim mutters in the background._

_"I mean yeah." Melanie shrugs. "He's dating Jon."_

_"I'll take offense to that," Georgie laughs, closing the door to the room behind her after coming in._

Gerry lets his head fall back against the glass, closing his eyes to feel the rattle of the car as the tube makes its way through London's entrails. Melanie's looking well enough, her injuries healing at a slow, human pace that Gerry can't help but to be hopeful about.

_"So you don't feel the need to go back?" Tim asks, leaning against the corner of the room with his arms crossed over his chest. It may be a bit risky to bring an avatar whose powers manifest as fire into a place with so much oxygen and defenseless people, but Tim looks calm for once, no hint of orange in the depths of his dark eyes. "When I left, I started feeling the withdrawal right away. Not like... at first it wasn't pain, I just 'wanted' to come back."_

_"Nope!" Melanie grins, popping the 'p' with such satisfaction that Gerry can't help but to chuckle along with Georgie. "The only place I want to go to is home."_

_"Aren't you lucky," Tim says a bit sullenly, but when Gerry looks over he's got the slightest hint of a smile on his face, albeit a sad one._

Tim is sitting two seats away, but Gerry can still feel both the heat -the burns on his skin throbbing in ghost pain- and the conflict emanating from him. Maybe this is why Jon used to feel so comfortable around him, Tim wears his heart on his sleeve and there's no guessing at what he's feeling, regardless of if that feeling holds something good in store for you or not. 

"What is it?" Gerry asks after a few more seconds. He doesn't turn to look at Tim, but they both know his words are aimed at him.

Tim's voice, when it comes, holds all the fragility of diamond, hard and sharp and waiting for something to hit at just the right angle to crumble to dust. "Do you- I wonder if this would work on Martin." 

Gerry snorts, his tentative good mood wiped away like so much dust under the rain. "Are you asking me?"

"You care," Tim says. It's not a question, and Gerry doesn't bother denying it. Thinking about Martin feels eerily like waiting outside of a locked room, kept barely alive by a voice not done justice by the magnetic tape in a recorder, hoping, _praying_ that the coffin will open, that he will come back, for someone else if not for him.

He keeps hoping the story will end the same, but he knows better than to dare think he'll be lucky twice.

"I don't know that breaking Martin from the Eye is our biggest concern anymore." Gerry sighs. "He told Jon no when he offered."

"...So? Are you just going to leave it like that?" Out the corner of his eye, he sees Tim scowl something fierce. "Jon said the fucking same, are you two just going to sit there and make eyes at each other while he turns?"

"We're _trying_ , alright?! Jon's running himself ragged trying to Know enough that Martin doesn't have to depend on Lukas anymore, and I can keep telling Martin he's more important than the Extinction, but he's too damn stubborn-"

"He said you _broke into his flat_ just to make him talk-"

"Well, you _live_ with him. If you can't bring him back, why-"

"Oh, _shut up_!" Tim groans, crossing his arms over his chest and throwing his head back to look at the roof "Shut up, for real. You're pissing me off, and we're underground, you're going to make me blow up half the city."

Gerry rolls his eyes, a resigned huff escaping his lips. "Sometimes I wish I'd convinced you to stay behind when we went to get the Dark Sun. I don't know what Lukas did to him, but I doubt he would've done it I'd you'd been here."

"You know what? I do, too." Tim remains focused on the roof of the car, his fingers tapping against his arm in an incessant rhythm that leaves melted indentations on his skin. "I should've stayed where it mattered."

They don't say much after that. What else could they add? He can deny it until he's blue in the face, but they both know Manuela Dominguez burned because Tim still holds Jon dear, whether he likes it or not. 

Still, Tim's words weigh heavy in his mind as they climb up the steps to the street and start the short trek to the Institute. It's- he's right. Whatever they promised Martin, this has gone too far. Martin might be ready to sacrifice it out of some misplaced lack of self worth, but nothing is worth his life, not even saving the world. And if he has to break into Martin's office and convince him of it, well... it won't be the first time, at least.

He starts on the stairs up towards the Institute's upper floors, only to stop when he notices Tim is no longer following. When he turns around, Gerry finds him standing at the bottom of the stairs, his face turned towards the door and his eyes overtaken by the bright orange of the Desolation. 

"...Are you okay?" Gerry asks, arching an eyebrow. 

Tim scowls at whatever it is he's looking at, but lifts a hand to stop him when Gerry makes to walk back down. "You going to see Jon?"

"Martin, actually," Gerry admits. Tim nods.

"Fine. You do that. I'll be down at the Archives." He gestures to the stairs going down instead.

It is a bit odd, but there's something else tugging at his mind right now. Something feels _off_ today crawling under his skin like a many legged being. He wonders for a moment if this is the Spider pulling at him, before he resolves that one way or another it won't do to dwell on it. He feeds the Mother of Puppets either by fearing the manipulation or by fighting against it; the best he can do is be prepared for whatever it is he's being pushed into. 

"-ou are. I was starting to fear you'd gotten cold feet." Gerry freezes before turning the corner to enter the corridor that takes to Martin's office. Lukas' voice is light and amused enough that Gerry wants to rearrange his face, mostly because he knows there's only one person in the Institute Lukas really talks to. 

"I haven't," Martin says, and he sounds like a gray afternoon given a voice. 

"Wonderful! I'd hate for you to give up after so much hard work, when we're already at the finish line. We can go down, then." 

Martin doesn't answer, not even when Lukas lets out a satisfied chuckle. Gerry leans around the corner as soon as the familiar static of the Lonely starts ringing in his ears, and he's just in time to see the last of Martin's back disappear into a wall of fog. 

The finish line. 

Gerry frowns; the Eye won't volunteer any information about what Lukas is talking about, not even when he tries to Look, but if this means that he's done with whatever he was pushing Martin into, then this can't be good. Should he go look for Jon? Would the Eye let him know where they-

"You're looking real unhappy there, dear." Helen's voice doesn't really make him jump as much as merely draws him out of his reverie. "Did you lose something?" 

"Some _one_." Gerry huffs. 

"The pessimism... you've been hanging with Jon too much, I'd say."

"If you happen to know where they're going-"

"They're real funny," Helen chuckles. It makes Gerry a bit dizzy, but he merely lays a hand on the wall to steady himself. "They kept saying they needed a map, like there aren't better ways to get to places."

Gerry freezes, the implications of the Distortion's words deafening in his mind. 

"Helen?" he asks almost shakily. If he can reach Martin and ask Helen to get the others- "Is it a door that they needed?"

Helen merely stands there before him, her smile curling into itself and her door partly opened behind her. 

Gertrude would _eat him alive_ for being so stupid, so _selfish_ , Gerry thinks with a bitter sort of amusement. What gives him the right to stop Martin from saving the world, just because of anything he or Jon may or may not feel?

Probably nothing, but maybe it's high time he tries being self-centered for once, he decides before he walks into the Distortion's corridors. 

\-----------------------------------

It had taken him a few blocks to place the feeling, but when he finally did Tim found it laughably easy to put a name to it.

At first it feels like a prickle at his nape, the feeling of being watched, and he ignores it because it's far from an uncommon occurrence at the Institute. It's only when he feels the urge to hasten his pace that it clicks in his mind, even when it doesn't feel quite the same as when he first caught sight of Jon ducking behind a corner on his way home. 

The Hunt is insidious, playing at your most basic instincts as it chases you to where you'll be easier to strike down. Now that he's recognized it, Tim finds it all too easy to shake it off. Instead the Desolation sparks to life inside his chest, aching for a good fight, for destruction, for the _delicious_ sorrow that lays promised by the bond between the two hunters.

It's a bit funny how they don't notice when he flips the tables, coming back through the Institute's front doors just in time to see the back of the old man disappearing into the alley behind the institute; how very Hunt-like, to underestimate the 'prey'.

They head straight for the door that leads down to the Archives, and Tim feels the burning in his chest grow hotter. 

Daisy wasn't lying when she said they were opportunistic, but she failed to mention just how fatally uninformed they were. He still feels the sequels from yesterday, and Jon was _trying_ not to hurt him. Even if they reached him, what chance do they hope to have against the Archivist on his home turf?

He waits until their steps have faded down the stairs, before pushing the door open again and slipping in himself, and he wonders if maybe in another life he wouldn't have shared a patron with them, with how fervently he tracked the Stranger, and how easily he falls into the role of the hunter now.

Jon _did_ kill the thing that took Sasha, and he's not too fond of owing favors.

\-----------------------------------

Dying is not so terrible, Daisy thinks. Or maybe it's Basira -as always- that makes it tolerable. 

It's cold by the entrance to the tunnel, but the cot itself is warm enough that Daisy doesn't shiver -she doesn't think she has the strength for it- in Basira's arms.

She doesn't smell the scent of tears or despair, and it only hurts a little. She wasn't expecting Basira to cry, or be devastated. In fact, she was counting on it. One of the things she fell in love with was Basira's stability, always a safe port to come home to in the middle of the storm that is Daisy's rage.

She's looking down at her on her lap, lightly brushing Daisy's hair off her face. All the hair was brushed away long ago but still Basira runs her fingers softly over her cheekbones, her forehead, her closed eyelids, and it feels like drifting off to sleep on a sunny windowsill.

It's far too peaceful an end, for all the pain she's caused.

"Basira-" she starts, only to stop a second after, her eyes shooting open at the sound of running feet and hurried breathing, the cloying scent of fear like a shot of adrenaline straight into her expiring heart.

"Jon?" Basira asks, her body tensing under Daisy's in preparation for- for what? "What's going on?"

Daisy chokes back a strained laugh. Of course something else would happen now that Basira has finally run out of excuses to let her die. 

"I'm- I- Daisy?" Jon's voice is shaky, and the scent of fear intensifies. It makes her want to howl that she's not only unable to assuage his distress, but that she's a part of it now. "What is- the Hunt-"

"Jon, what do you _want_?!" Basira snaps.

Jon flinches. "Martin, I- he left me- I don't think he's coming back." There's a tape recorder in his hand, and what makes Daisy sit up on the cot is that he looks like he sounded in the Buried, lost and trapped and all devoid of hope. 

"Where's Gerry?" she asks. "He's good at finding Martin. Bringing him back."

"That's- I don't know," Jon says shakily. "I'm- I tried to See him, but- I think he's inside Helen? I don't know- he doesn't feel like he's in danger, but-"

"And can't you See Martin?" Basira arches an eyebrow. "If you can See inside the Distortion-"

"I'm- I can't usually do that." Jon huffs almost angrily. "I can sort of See inside Helen because Gerry's in there, like-"

"Like you're looking through him?" Daisy supplies, when he seems to be out of words. Much to her despair, she feels reenergized already, like the mere idea of a goal is enough to fuel the embers of the Hunt inside her. She can feel Basira's eyes on the side of her face, and she knows she's already plotting, scheming some way to keep her around longer.

"Exactly, yes." Jon nods. "And only barely enough to feel that he doesn't _think_ he's in danger. But when I try to See Martin, it's- it's like- like two mirrors in front of each other. I know it doesn't make any sense, but-"

"Nevermind that." Basira climbs to her feet in a smooth move "We can find him."

Daisy doesn't miss the use of the plural, nor the way her glowing green eyes fix on her with that look she knows all too well. It's a look that beckons her to follow, a siren call she has little to no hope of refusing. She heaves a sigh before she stands from the cot as well, smacking Jon on the shoulder. 

"Couldn't wait until I was buried to drag me out again, could you?" she asks.

Jon gives her a small, sad smile. "I'm sorry."

Daisy shrugs. She'll stick around just for a few more hours, just for them.

"Let's find those two."

\-----------------------------------

There's a body below the institute. 

This is, of course, not the first time this has happened, Martin thinks, and the thought _almost_ feels amusing. The handle of the knife Peter placed in his hand after the whole explanation about the Panopticon feels almost vulgar in its suggestion that violence is the only way to save the world. 

"I must admit, he's not at all as surprised as I expected he'd be." says a voice that Martin still hears in his nightmares from time to time. When he turns around, Elias is standing across Peter, the two of them framing the door like guardian statues. He looks immaculate, his suit clean and freshly pressed, his tie perfectly knotted at his throat. Martin arches an eyebrow, wondering if he factored in enough time for grooming when breaking out from jail, and Elias chuckles. "Speaks wonders of your job I suppose."

"A natural, I told you. Now Martin, if you'd move along please?" Peter says without taking his eyes off Elias. The smirk on his face speaks of familiarity, the kind of look you give someone that you know will be incensed by it. "I didn't count on us having an audience, but I guess I should've known."

"Can't a man watch his own death?" Elias' lips curve upwards like the edge of the blade in Martin's hand. "Also, you must admit it's much more.... poetic, this way, Peter."

"I'll concede on that." Peter turns towards Martin again. "What's keeping you?"

"This is you, isn't it?" It's not that big of a leap, the Panopticon, Jonah Magnus, and the Eye's biggest servant. Elias' widening grin is answer enough. "Will the others survive?"

"I'm surprised you care." Peter says, and Martin rolls his eyes. 

"I-"

"He doesn't. But he knows he should. Again, impressive." Elias shrugs, and for all that Martin stands over his body with a knife, he couldn't look less bothered. "But in the interest of truth-"

"Oh, you care about that now?" Peter cackles in the background.

"The answer is, I'm not sure." Elias raises his voice a little. "But making an educated guess, most of the ones you used to care about should fare just fine. Tim and Melanie are well out of my reach. Your new allegiance should protect you from the worst of it, like the Hunt should miss Tonner, if she wasn't so keen on starving herself. I'm not sure about the Detective, ever the rogue variant, but thanks to our patron's little present, Jon is powerful enough that he should survive as well-"

"Don't call him that," Martin mutters quietly to himself. He doubts Elias is listening, anyways; he's much too fond of his own voice. 

"-egular workers of the Institute will be affected of course, though there is no telling just how grave the damage will be. But I know you don't care about that, and you know that too, don't you Martin?" 

He's... really irritating, Martin decides. 

"I do." Whether he means he does care or he merely knows he doesn't, Martin isn't too sure himself.

"Always very self-aware, yes." Elias has the gall to nod like a proud mentor, and Martin rolls his eyes. "I would say then that the only variable to factor in is whether or not you want to kill me."

"I really do." And for so many reasons, too.

"Then go ahead, Martin." Peter steps forward, and Martin sees Elias watching him from the back like a snake about to strike. It's actually pretty funny, that they're both so sure they've cornered the other. "Kill him, and help me save the world."

"I don't think I will, actually." Martin shrugs, tossing the knife aside with a careless flick. The delight he feels at Peter's confused frown is muted, but it's definitely there.

"I- what?" Peter stutters. Elias' grin grows even sharper behind him. "Martin, this is not the time for games, the _world_ is at stake here, and-"

"See, that's where you messed up. All those details that didn't add up, the _insistence_ that I was some sort of- of world savior? Far too grand for me." Elias breaks down in cackles, and Martin covers his flinching by crossing his arms over his chest. "It really wasn't that hard to see through all the bull you were trying to serve me."

"Serve- Martin, I never lied to you. The Extinction is coming and-"

"I don't doubt it." He waves the matter away. "But this is not about the Extinction, is it? It's just whatever pases for a game between you two, using people as your betting chips, and I don't want any part in it. I'm out."

"But you said-"

"What you wanted to hear, mostly." Martin shrugs again; the feeling of perverse delight growing more and more alive in his chest. Who knew that pettiness was an emotion just as effective against the Lonely? 

"You projected too hard on dear Martin, it seems," Elias says after his laughter has subsided. Peter looks fit to boil, his pale face sporting ugly red blotches as he rounds up on Elias.

"This is your doing," he says. Elias' carefully knotted tie crumples in Peter's clenched fist. "How-"

"It wasn't _him_." Martin interrupts again, feeling more tangible by the second out of sheer indignation. "It was me, _always_ me. I came to you because Jon was dead and it seemed like the most useful thing I could do for the others was letting you do your thing. I thought it would even be a good way to get killed, but you lost _any_ hold you might've had the _moment_ Jon woke up." It's almost cathartic to let everything out after so much lying. It certainly is rewarding to watch Peter's face lose more and more color with each word. "Suddenly I had a reason again, and it was _very_ easy to pretend I was going along with your schemes, if it meant keeping him safe. You had me for a while when you started dropping hints about the Extinction, but it was just too much, you know? I'm not exactly a- a 'chosen one', or a hero, but it was the best way to figure out what your end game was."

"But- I can feel the Lonely around you, it's-"

"Sure, it's there. Always has been, maybe. But if this is the final test, then- then I guess failed." The silence that blankets over the Panopticon after his words is so dense Martin can almost taste it. He wonders if the other two can hear the frantic beating of his heart.

"You- no." Peter shakes his head. "This- you have no idea what you've done, you've doomed-"

"I did warn you, Peter." Elias speaks, sweet and cloying like festering rot. "Now, sore loser is a terrible look on you, so get on with it."

"Get on with what?" Martin scowls, trying to ignore the shiver that bleeds down his spine when Elias' amused smile turns towards him. "I thought he couldn't use the Panopticon."

"That ship has sailed, I'm afraid." Elias shakes his head, tutting under his breath. "Really, one way or another you shouldn't have anything to fear, Martin. If your allegiance to the Lonely's strong enough, you should be able to walk right back out. If it's not... then you just have to hope Jon's allegiance to _you_ is strong enough."

"I'm- what?" Martin frowns. Why would Elias want Jon to go get him from- oh. Oh, crap, how could he have been so _stupid_?! He steps back, when a tendril of fog begins to wrap itself around his ankle. "Wait, I-"

"I'll do it." Martin feels his blood freeze in his veins, when he whips around and finds Gerry standing by the entrance to the Panopticon, his hand wrapped around the knife Martin discarded just a few minutes ago. 

"What on earth are _you_ doing here?" Peter asks, his hand still extended towards Martin, but the fog momentarily at ease. Martin takes a few more steps back, trying to get his thoughts into some semblance of order because _this is not good_. Gerry shouldn't be here, he can handle the Lonely, but he can't leave Gerry alone with these two-

"If you want him dead so badly, I'll kill him, and use the damned thing for you." Gerry steps towards the body with knife in hand, and Martin has a split second to appreciate that Elias no longer seems so amused, even getting closer to the body himself. "Let Martin go."

"You don't have any bonds with the Lonely." Peter arches an eyebrow, but he's starting to lower his hand. Fuck, this- this isn't good. 

"Does that really matter? I could hardly be more marked by the Eye. I'll use it for you, just let Martin-"

"Are you _crazy_?" Martin snaps, whipping around to face him again. "Get out of here, I-"

"Peter." Elias hisses in the background, and Peter grunts.

"As much as it'd please me to use the Eye's own gifts against it-" Peter starts, every word sounding like a forced pleasantry. The edges of Martin's vision blur with thick, white fog that pulls at his core almost as much as his mind reels from it. "-I _am_ a man of my word."

"What- wait-" Gerry takes a step towards him, reaching a hand to grab at Martin's shoulder.

"Say, Gerard," Elias' voice cuts in, loud and laced with static as he steps between Gerry and his body. "Have you ever wondered how your father died?"

Gerry's face goes contorts in pain as the memories are forced in, and Martin flinches in sympathy.

"Go away!" Martin snaps, before whipping around to face Elias. "Cut it out, I'll go in-"

"The _marks_ , Martin-" Gerry grunts. "Stay-"

"You were sleeping while she butchered his body. A spirited woman, your mother, but not the finest planner-"

Gerry shakes his head like trying to shake the foreign thoughts loose, a thin stream of ink running down his philtrum, staining his lips black. 

"Like you'd fucking know- Martin? Martin, look at me!" He orders, like Martin isn't already doing so, like he isn't actively trying to give in to the pull of the Lonely -if he goes, they'll leave him alone, they have no other reason to keep him- 

"She _did_ love him, you know? Or she loved his devotion for her at least. It's quite funny, actually. Good old Eric fought so hard to break free of our patron, and he never once stopped to wonder if he wasn't running into something worse. His end was quite gruesome, even for one of Gertrude's assistants." Elias' eyes gleam with dark amusement when they meet Martin's, and the threat in them is clear. "He thought her steps sounded different that afternoon, but he was only starting to get used to getting by on his remaining senses, and she'd been so gentle and caring to him lately-"

"Stop..." Gerry snarls "I don't care, I never knew him, you can't-"

"Oh, but you could have. If he hadn't been so _arrogant_ , if he hadn't tried to plan so much smarter than he was. You should be careful which of your parents' footsteps you want to follow, though I suppose both trails are marked in blood."

"Elias, stop!" Martin shuts his eyes tight to not see Gerry's pained expression, focusing on the cold, slimy feeling of the fog that resides within his core, but he can't- the Lonely's refusing to come to his call, and Martin wants to _scream_ , because when Gerry warned him so many months ago that he'd ruin his plan, Martin wasn't expecting it to be by making him _care_ so much for him. "Peter, just- do it already!"

The man's face is veiled in satisfaction, and Martin has no doubt that he too knows Martin won't survive the Lonely like this, and the act is as much a fulfillment of the wager with Elias as it is his revenge for Martin unraveling his plans. 

"Martin!" Gerry throws himself forward, and Martin feels his hand pass straight through his front.

The last hint of color he sees before the grey takes it away is that heart-wrenching mix of green and blue.

\-----------------------------------

Martin's trail is a soft green against the dirty stone floor of the tunnels. Not as easy to follow as Daisy's, and mingled with a sickly grey one that smells of salt and absence.

"These tunnels don't make sense," she grunts after taking a left turn for the sixth time in a row.

"They change." Jon sniffles behind her, his footsteps light and hurried in contrast with Daisy's heavier, determined ones. "I feel a sort of- a pull, towards the center. I'm guessing that's where Martin is?"

Basira doesn't respond, sure, Jon could've come down here himself, but then Daisy would've given up, would've died in her arms without the interruption, without the goal.

"Do you feel Gerry?" Daisy asks. There's a light growl to her voice that wasn't there before, and it makes Basira stop a little. "Is he alright?"

"He's- I think he found Martin. It's like the two mirrors thing, whenever I try to See any of them." Jon wipes a hand across his brow, letting out a soft, sheepish chuckle. "I'm- I feel blind."

"We're being followed," Daisy says calmly, and Basira spins around on her heel. The Hunt doesn't manifest with light, there is no eerie glow to her warm brown eyes, but Basira sees her fingers curled in the shape of claws, and the stiff line of her back just as clearly, the blood simmering under her skin, not yet boiling but very much threatening to. "Are you going to come out, or will you keep hiding like rats?"

Basira's gun is on her hand in an instant, and she pulls Jon behind her, a rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins at the familiarity of falling into step with Daisy. 

"Must admit- I'd been hopin' you'd be dead by now." She doesn't know the old man that comes from behind the corner they just turned, but she can guess who it is just by the distortion to his features, his too-wide grin full of too-sharp teeth, his eyes that reflect the light of their torches in the way no human could. "We wanted to have Jonny boy for ourselves for a bit."

"We got a few statements we'd like to give." And if that's Trevor Herbert, then this must be Julia Montauk, of course.

"You didn't dare go against Daisy and me last time," Jon pipes in from behind Basira, and she contemplates turning around and strangling him herself, because _of course_ Jon will hear danger ask for him by name and be a smartass about it. "Now there's three of us. Doesn't sound too smart."

"But see, we're well out of your dear Archives now, Jon dear." Julia takes a step to the side that Daisy mimics, keeping herself between the groups. "And your guard dog here looks like a famished mutt. I like our chances, actually."

"Brought this on yourself, really." The old hunter cracks his neck, running a red tongue over his teeth. "We'd have let you live, you were going around stopping rituals even, but you just had to go and take that page out."

Basira feels more than she sees Jon's patience dwindling. There's static in the air sure, but there's _something_ in her connection to the Eye that reacts to him getting ready for a fight. 

"Easy, Jon," she mutters, her gun trained on the old man's forehead.

"We're wasting time. I need-"

"Go, just follow your call," says Daisy, without moving an inch from where she's facing the other woman down. Basira can See the blood rising hotter and angrier inside her, and Daisy's almost back to looking like _herself_ , the light back in her eyes, the steel in her spine, the slightest hint of a smirk as she stares Julia down. "We'll take care of this."

Jon hesitates for a moment; Basira can see the struggle in his eyes, going from Daisy to the hunters to her-

"Just go!" Basira snaps. "You know what's going on here, go find out what's happening there!"

And well, maybe it _is_ underhanded, to use his worry for those two against him, but if it gets him to leave...

"I'll come back," Jon says hurriedly.

Basira nods. "Or I'll find you. Go!"

He rushes down the tunnel; Basira wonders, daring a look over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of his awkward race around a corner, is this the last she sees of Jonathan Sims? 

"That's cute!" Julia snarls, calling her back to attention. The faint orange glow behind her is easy to miss, but Basira recognizes it easily enough. "You're getting very high and mighty there."

"This one is not even a full avatar," Trevor gestures at Basira with a chuckle, and it feels both relieving and insulting. "You can't take the two of us alone, not in your state."

"I don't know. What was it you said a moment ago?" Tim speaks from behind them, causing the two hunters to whip around to face him. His eyes glow like two angry embers; Basira remembers this Tim not from the night before the Unknowing, but from the warehouse up North. "I like our chances."

\-----------------------------------

The pull at his chest is not foreign to Jon, though it feels as different as day and night from the one he followed to find Gerry when the hunters came the first time. 

It's something built into him from the moment he opened his eyes as the Archivist, something that ties him to the Archives, to whatever it is that lays at the middle of this labyrinth, and Jon _despises_ it.

Still he follows it, heading to whatever fate awaits him willingly, for them. 

The chamber he finds himself in is enormous, the walls made up entirely of cells with thick bars covered in rust. At the center, stands a tower made up of blackened stone, the very top domed in clouded glass, and the Beholding drops a word in his mind with all the ceremony of an artist revealing their Magnum Opus.

_The Panopticon._

"So good you could join us, Jonathan." Elias's voice hits him like a hammer to the chest, and only then does Jon notice him standing at the base of the turret, his arms crossed behind his back and smiling beatifically in his direction. "Was it hard, finding the place?"

"Not- not too much." Jon steps closer carefully. He still can't See Martin or Gerry, but Elias being here - _how did he get out of jail? Was he ever really trapped there?_ \- is not a great signal. 

"Because I called you." Elias nods. "I thought you might want to pick up what you lost."

Shit.

"Where are they? Elias, if you-" Jon's rather pathetic attempt at a threat is cut off by Elias' gleeful cackle. 

"Calm down, Jon. Gerard's merely a bit... lost in thought. As for Martin, the door is open, if you want him back."

"What door? Elias, _what did you do?_ " Jon snarls, pouring the compulsion thick into the question.

"I cashed in a favor. Or rather, a wager." Elias smiles. "You've grown fairly powerful, haven't you?"

"Elias-"

"You'll find Martin right where you put him." Elias' eyes gleam dangerously, his smile still sharp on his face. "In the Lonely."

"W-"

"As much as I'd enjoy a chat, I'd advise against dallying. He was in a bit of a state when he went in. Not too suited to survive in there, even after all these months." Elias takes a step aside, clearing the way to the stone stairs that curl up around the body of the tower. "Good luck, Jonathan. I'll be seeing-"

Whatever he was going to say next, Jon doesn't care to know. He rushes past him, climbing the stairs as quickly and as carefully as he can, keeping away from the edge because he wouldn't put it past himself to simply trip and snap his neck.

The interior of the turret is mostly empty, but his eyes pick up on three details immediately. The first is the dessicated body sitting at the center of the eye carved on the stone floor. He Knows who he is, and who the man outside isn't, but right at this moment, he couldn't care less.

The second thing he notices is the door to the Lonely, like a tear on dark fabric leaking out a soft silvery light and heavy wisps of fog that drift down to the floor.

Gerry's crumbled next to the body like a puppet whose strings were cut off. His arm stretched out towards the rift, and he's bleeding, a puddle of acrid-smelling ink under his head.

Jon rushes to his side, falling to his knees beside him and turning his head as carefully as he can. 

"Gerr- I- can you hear me?" he asks, his heart beating so hard he's worried it'll punch a hole right through his chest. Gerry's eyes are wide and glassy and Beholding green, and his papery white lips move around words Jon cannot hear, but he's _alive_ , and that means they have a shot still. 

"I need- Gerry, I- you have to wake up now. I'm-" This is- he's so _bad_ at this. How do you call a person back? I'm sorry but I love you, please don't go? "I need you, _please_."

\-----------------------------------

"Told ya!" The old man smirks, his sharp teeth painted red with the blood flowing from his nose after Tim's headbutt. His claw-like nails sink into the flesh of Basira's neck, and the whirlpool of activity in the tunnel comes to a screeching halt. "This one is not quite done yet. Let's see if she bleeds like a monster or like a human."

If one thinks about it objectively, Tim's cockiness wasn't necessarily unjustified. He merely failed to factor in the part where he technically doesn't want to blow up the entirety of London to get rid of two hunters, or turn Daisy and Basira into a pile of ashes.

"That's enough," Daisy growls, loosening her grip around Julia's neck. The woman slashes at her face as soon as she's free, the knife leaving an angry red gash across her cheekbone and nose. 

It makes something hot an angry burn at his chest, that even with all this power, he's still useless to stop this. 

"How sweet." Julia shoves her off, climbing to her feet with a slight limp in her step. Tim feels a dark pang of pride at the angry red burn on the side of her face. "You're not the monsters we wanted, but it's okay, we don't discriminate. Let's see that throat, old man."

"Basira?" Daisy calls out. She's still on her knees, still watching her own blood drip down to the dirty floor of the tunnels.

"Yes?" Basira asks, then chokes a little when Trevor presses his nails a bit harder. 

"Will you find me?" Daisy's starting to shake, and Tim takes a step back even as the Desolation in him beckons him forward, because the sheer amount of sorrow and rage coming from her is _intoxicating_.

Another wave of loss, of suffering hits him just as hard. Tim darts a glance at her, but there's nothing in Basira's face that betrays the pain simmering inside her. 

"Anywhere."

Daisy's form splits open.

It's like watching a flower blossom in a timelapse video, or a moth emerge from its cocoon. The creature that comes out is long-limbed and sharp-fanged, and its fur shimmers with a faint coat of blood as it leaves behind the useless skin of Daisy Tonner. They watch it in stunned silence as it raises to its full height, its hunched back grazing against the roof of the tunnel, a cavernous growl squeezing out from between jaws where the hide is stretched too thin, pierced here and there by sharp yellowed fangs, its eyes like two pinpricks of light at the end of a cavernous tunnel fixed on the hunters before it.

"...Fuck," Julia mutters. Tim is inclined to agree.

Then the thing that was Daisy takes a step towards her, and the room explodes in activity again. Basira is shoved to the side as Trevor rushes to step between them, and it's all Tim can do to throw himself over her, as two and then three beasts slam each other against the walls of the tunnel, raining down dirt and debris that digs into Tim's waxy flesh.

It feels like hours before the howling fades away, before the tearing of flesh under claws and fangs leaves behind a silence so haunting it very nearly drowns the roar of the Desolation inside him.

"G- get off," Basira orders, pushing a hand against his chest. Tim scrambles to his feet and offers a hand that she ignores, her eyes focused on the soggy skins left behind in crumpled lumps by the beasts. "I- shit."

"Eloquent." She's looking down one of the tunnels, the one that reeks of hatred and pain, and Tim knows very well the sort of debate brewing in her mind. "Are you going after them?"

"Are you?" she snaps, whipping around to face him. Her face is carefully blank, and Tim doesn't point out the red rims of her eyes, or the pain emanating from her in waves. It doesn't take a genius to understand she's pinning her own hesitation on him. He doesn't know much about Basira, but he might understand that it's easier for her to handle weak people than to be weak herself. 

Is he going after them?

He could probably find them, following the claw marks and the rage. If they make it far enough from anyone that could get caught in the crossfire-

"Why were you down here?" he asks, though he thinks he might know the answer already. Jon is many things, but he wouldn't abandon them so easily. 

_"Jon was still holding on to you when they found you, you know?"_ Sasha -no, not her, not anymore- had said, and Tim had believed her immediately, just as he believes it now. 

"Martin and- they're missing. We think they're at the center of this- this mess." Basira's voice is almost frail as she continues to look down the corridor the monsters disappeared in.

"Can you find them?"

"Yes." The word comes immediately, mournful and without hesitation.

"Well- let's- let's get to it. Somehow I doubt Daisy needs us that much right now."

\-----------------------------------

_"You're making a right mess of me," he says. He's standing next to the table, watching the proceedings with something that almost feels like interest. "I thought you had more experience at this."_

_"I was feeling experimental." She shrugs. Her arms are covered in blood to the elbow, and her chest and face are also splattered red. "I felt like it had to be special."_

_"Very romantic," he says dryly. "What's going to happen to Gerry?"_

_"Gerard will be fine." She enunciates the name clearly and firmly. They never did settle that argument, but she pretty much just won, he guesses. "He's got the potential."_

_"He's two years old."_

_"He's my son." She saws angrily, until the bone finally breaks. "You brought this on yourself, you know?What were you thinking, pulling your eyes out?"_

_"I suppose I did. I thought you'd be happy that I was free." He shrugs again, before extending a translucent hand to push a lock of blood-soaked blonde hair behind her ear. It passes right through. "It's nice to see you again."_

_She pauses on her work, her eyes -he always did love that perfect mix of green and blue- fixed on the carnage dripping down to the kitchen floor._

_"You knew how I was," she says finally. "I never hid that from you."_

_"You didn't."_

That's not an apology. It's not an excuse. It's not _enough_ for this man who sees himself dead on a table and asks about his son first, why do they both look so satisfied with it?!

The saw is heavy in his hand, and slippery with the blood that stinks the whole room of iron. Gerry tries to drop it, tries to step back, _this is not him_ , up to his elbows in the blood of the one he loves-

"Gerry?" Jon's voice washes over him like cool water over a burn; Gerry thinks he might cry, when he blinks away the image of his parents and Jon is _there_ , looking down at him in concern. "I'm- you're- how do you feel?"

"Like shit." Gerry lets out a dry cackle that's just this side of hysterical, before the gravity of the situation catches up to him, and he sits up so abruptly Jon has to throw himself back to avoid getting head-butted. "Fuck. Jon, we- Martin-"

"I know, I- Elias told me." Jon bites at his bottom lip. "I'm- it looks like we're completing the card after all."

"...Looks like it," Gerry says. It leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, but there's no other way to go about it. Jon's not going to leave Martin in the Lonely, and Gerry's not going to ask him to. He climbs to his feet with a groan -he _definitely_ bruised something- and Jon follows suit. "I'm- I don't know how well it'll go, Jon. You were able to use me as an anchor in the Dark, but I don't know if you can just- just pull Martin out. The person has to want to come back, usually."

"Let's find out." Jon takes a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the rift to the Lonely for a moment. He looks over his shoulder at him, and there's an odd intensity to his eyes, not the eerie power of the Archivist, but merely the one befitting a man in love. "Are you ready?"

"I- what?" Gerry blinks a couple times, before his own words come back to him from so long ago, whispered against Jon's lips with more devotion than any prayer he's ever uttered, the threat of an apocalypse looming over their heads and in his heart the firm intention of walking into the Dark for this man. "Oh."

"...I don't mean to force you to-" the little yelp Jon gives when he leans in to kiss him might just be enough to turn him immune to the Lonely, Gerry thinks. 

"Let's go get your Martin back, then."


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CWs for this chapter:**  
>  -Depression  
> -Parental neglect  
> -Past implied suicidal ideation  
> (These are present in the very first POV, and are related to Martin's past. Please feel free to skip it if the topics make you uncomfortable)  
> -Canon character death

**XIX**

_Martin is seven years old the first time he realizes how utterly and completely alone he is. Back then he still goes by a name that isn't his, and he doesn't yet have the words to describe why it feels **wrong**. _

_He looks around at all the children in his classroom; their clothes look clean and smell good, and their mothers not only pick them up from school, but they look happy when doing so. He asks mum once why she never smiles, does something hurt? Maybe the doctor can give her more pills?_

_Mum doesn't respond. She merely gives Martin that long, serious look that always makes Martin think he said something dumb, and goes to her room, leaving Martin alone with his cold supper and a slow gathering fog that he can't see._

_Martin is fourteen years old when he first understands he's unwanted. He's begun to figure out who he is, and his clothes are ill-fitting, just like he himself is, bouncing around between groups of people that aren't really his peers, and merely accept his presence like one would any other part of the scenery._

_Mum is no longer subtle, and the look isn't serious as much as it is distasteful, no matter how hard Martin tries. He would like to tell someone about this, but when he thinks of reaching out he remembers the only messages in his old school notebooks are those of well-meaning teachers, wishing him luck and praising a potential that Martin knows isn't there._

_He's sixteen years old, when Martin comes to the conclusion that he's perhaps meant to be alone forever. Mum's illness has gotten so bad that Martin has to drop off school to work and care for her. She doesn't look at him anymore, not even when Martin finally shows up looking like he's always wanted to. He doesn't know exactly how to feel about this, because as much as he didn't want a fight, it's yet another proof that his existence is irrelevant in her life._

_He tries to tell himself this is just his poor self esteem. Of course his mother loves him, she's his mother. She kept him alive, she cared for him, she's just... ill. And she's always been strong-willed. To a child it might've looked like irritation, but Martin is an adult now and he's learned life is not at all like in Hallmark movies, and if he sat down to cry every time mum didn't say 'I love you' back, he'd seldom have time to do anything else._

_Martin is twenty two when he accepts he's exhausted. Of this life, of his mother, of himself. He wants to do something about it, but the pill bottles behind the bathroom mirror scare him just as much as the University pamphlets he hides under his pillow._

_He strides up to the imposing looking building by the river with his forged CV in hand because he doesn't know what else to do. He gets the job, but as the Head of the Institute shakes his hand to dismiss him, Martin looks at Elias Bouchard's bright green eyes, and knows that he **knows**. That somehow this man has realized he's an impostor, that he's gotten this far only by convincing people he's far more capable than he actually is._

_But he needs the money, and this job is far less demanding than anything else he could've gotten with his lack of credentials. He signs the contract, and he doesn't notice the jealous cling of the fog around him, as the Eye turns its gaze on him._

\------------------------------------------

"What is this place?" Tim asks when they come into the cavernous chamber.

Basira looks around, nailed in place by the unsettling feeling of relief she's experiencing. The cells are empty behind their rusted bars, but Basira can See the outlines of the prisoners where they died when they were Known by a power they couldn't even begin to understand.

"It's- it's a place of Beholding," she mutters. She hates it here, hates how _comfortable_ she feels in this place that's so permeated with death. It's another reminder of what she is, of all the shit she let pass; it's a bit of a bad joke, that after looking the other way for so long she's now become something that _can't_ look away. "Jon's up there. And Martin too."

"What about Gerry?" Tim asks.

"I dropped him there. Not sure where he went after." They whip around at the new voice, and sure enough the entrance to the passageway they came through is now a very large version of Helen's door, with the Distortion herself swinging too-long legs as she sits on an enlarged doorknob. "He was in quite a fit about Martin, though."

"Well, better late than never, I guess." Tim grunts.

Basira rolls her eyes, because _of course_ Tim has been so lost on his personal drama of whether or not he wants to forgive Jon that he hasn't noticed anything else. Still, her mouth twitches; it's a good distraction from the constant wondering about Daisy. She cups her hands around her mouth, taking a tentative step forward.

"Jon? Did you find them?" she calls out. No one responds, and Basira gets a muted pang of surprise at the way her stomach drops with worry. Maybe she did care after all. "Get ready. Elias was here. And Lukas too."

"That's comforting," she hears Tim grumble behind her as he follows her lead. It feels... it's different.

It's not Daisy. It will probably never be Daisy again, but it feels good to have a team at her back.

\------------------------------------------

The Lonely smells like tears.

It's a deceptively simple smell, building up like bad memories and a knot at the back of your throat.

Much like in the Dark, there's no colors here. Unlike the Dark, there is _nothing_ here, not even fear, or the certainty that there is something waiting for you to give up and consume you.

The Lonely doesn't care about you.

No one does, or you wouldn't have ended here. Do _you_ care about this? You have always cared _so much_. It was exhausting, and it did nothing but cause trouble to you and the ones you thought you loved.

Isn't this a lot easier? You don't have to feel anything, here. You can't hurt anyone here.

"-on? Can you hear me?"

The scent of lavender hits softly like a memory, and Jon blinks until he can distinguish between the cold inside him and the cold around him.

"Gerry?" he asks, but his hand closes around nothing.

"-m here." Gerry's voice reaches him from far away, even though Jon is sure they were holding on to each other when they entered.

"I- I can't see you."

"-ou feel me?"

He can, Jon finds. A thread of white-hot steel pulling at the left side of his chest, the ghastly feeling of lips on his own.

"Yes. Yes, I can." A love that is felt but not seen, just like-

"-ind Martin," Gerry says from his corner of the Lonely, which could be an inch or a mile away. "-ocus on that."

That- that makes sense. Martin is still human, he's the most at risk here. Once they find him, they can get out, and the other will follow. Should follow.

"Okay, I- be careful." Jon tries to add something else, but the words that Gerry uttered so easily on the kitchen floor that night feel impossible to push out.

"-ove you," Gerry whispers, before his presence fades away.

 _'Me too,'_ Jon thinks fiercely, desperately and futilely. _'Me too, and I will find the two of you if I have to Know every inch of the Lonely, until it can't keep you from me.'_

The Beholding purrs in delight at the declaration. It doesn't care why the Archivist uses it as long as he does. Jon should probably care about that a little more than he does, but the only thing in his mind now is Martin, and the need to get him out of here before he can't distinguish between it and himself.

\------------------------------------------

"Can you see the entry?" Tim asks, stepping away from the dry corpse in the center of the room.

"Not really," Basira shrugs. "I can see where their trails end, but- we can't go in, Tim."

And that's that, he supposes. She says it with such finality, with such certainty, that Tim has no choice but to accept it as fact.

Martin is gone.

Martin, the last of them, the only one untouched by all this shit. Martin who brewed them tea and pretended he wasn't making cow eyes at Jon even though he behaved like an absolute ass. Martin who found Tim at his living room with fire in his veins and offered him the same unconditional friendship they'd shared before everything began to go south.

He warned them about this. He warned _both_ of them and the worst part is he can't even be angry at Jon about it, because _Jon is gone too_ , and because he himself wasn't able to keep Martin here, he wasn't _enough_.

This is- he's the only one left. They're all gone, and they slipped through his fingers even after he got a second chance, one after the other, Danny, Sasha, J-

"I wouldn't touch him right now if I were you," Helen says somewhere in the room, and it's only when he opens them that Tim realizes he's shut his eyes; he looks in time to see Basira's hand retreating from his shoulder, as Helen speaks again. "Should I go get Melanie?"

"No," Basira says immediately. "She's out. We don't- we don't go to Melanie unless there's no other choice. We have to-"

"We have to _what_?" Tim snaps. He's so _tired_ of this, of losing people- he liked it much better when he'd just woken up and all he could feel was rage. "Let's just pop your eyes out too, so I can blow the fucking place up." And himself too, if he's lucky.

"Could you stop moping around already?!" Basira whips around to face him. Her eyes are burning with intensity, and her fists are clenched and shaking by her sides. "You've seen him walk from worse, _you've_ walked from worse. Now- now we have to- I don't know what happened here, but if Elias walked out of jail exactly today, then it's _got_ to have something to do with Martin, or-"

"Or Jon's marks." The answer hits Tim like a slap to the face.

_'You're just missing one, aren't you?'_

_'The Lonely, yes.'_

_'How convenient isn't it? Martin's sudden promotion.'_

_'I'm well aware it's my fault, Tim, thank you.'_

What else could it be? Whatever Elias is planning-

He turns to her, and in her eyes he finds the same understanding, the same clicking of pieces he just went through. The fourteen marks were deliberate, orchestrated; Annabelle Cane's statement was nothing short of a confession.

It doesn't change anything, not really, everything that happened, everything Jon did is still there, a wound that scarred badly and that still aches when pulled at, but-

"We have to get them away," Basira says.

But at least for now, Tim has a purpose again.

\------------------------------------------

Gerry's never been to the Lonely before, though he's felt its grip on him many times in his life.

It has loomed over him ever since he was a child, alone and confused and fearing and craving his mother's hugs in equal measure. Back when he first started learning about the fears he did wonder why it never struck, why it never pulled him in to devour him whole. It was only later that he understood what made him so resistant to this particular fear.

You defeat the Lonely with love, and Gerry has never been short of that.

Whether or not it's been paid in kind is another matter entirely, but he loved his mother, and he loved Gertrude, and he loved every soul he helped save from a fate worse than death. It has to be enough now, and if it isn't... well, Gerry's always been good at making round pegs fit into square holes, and this won't be the exception. He won't let Martin be the exception.

He wanders across the Lonely for what feels like hours, when he spies a figure hunched on the floor. There's no heart to race in his chest, but Gerry hurries his steps when he recognizes the muted black of Martin's hair, the tired curve to his shoulders.

"Martin? Martin!" Gerry exclaims, falling to his knees across from him, and swatting away at the thick fog that lays around the man like a cloak. "Fuck, I- it's so good to see you. What the hell were you thinking?!"

Martin doesn't look at him, doesn't even look up, and when Gerry lays his hands on his shoulders there's a thin layer of cool dampness that he wipes away hurriedly.

"Huh. I didn't expect you'd be here," Martin's voice echoes oddly, like it's carrying across water. "I thought they'd stop if I let them put me here. Did they send you here too?"

"I- n- no, Martin." Gerry tries to crouch lower to enter his field of vision, before he carefully lays a hand on Martin's round cheek to softly pull his face up. "No, we- Jon brought me in. We came here for you.

"Jon." Martin's grey eyed focus on him, and Gerry feels like he's been punched in the gut. He can't taste the emotion in Martin's voice like he can with Jon's, but he doesn't need to. He's heard the kind of sorrow poured in those three letters.

"Yes, he- he's here too. Now that I got you, we just need to-"

"You should go to him."

"I mean, yes, we both need to-"

"I think it's better if I stay here, Gerry."

"...What?" Gerry scowls, then feels his eyes widening in terror when his hand starts going through Martin's cheek. "Shit- Martin no! We need-"

"I really loved him, you know?" Martin's silhouette is growing harder to see, like a mirror fogging up.

"Of course I know, you- Martin you pretty much only tolerated me because of him, I _know_ you love him."

Martin lets out a chuckle; it's a low, sad sound that makes Gerry's stomach churn.

"At first, I suppose." He shrugs, and his contour grows a bit fainter. The only thing Gerry can see clearly is his sad little smile, like some twisted version of the Cheshire cat. "I was sad at first that you- but you turned out to be so amazing, in the end. I was happy he found you."

Fuck. Fuck, fuck- Gerry tries to grab at him again, but his hand just goes clean through.

"Martin, it's- it's not over. We're not done, he wants you, he still-"

"I think it's time to go now-"

"Martin Blackwood you're not going _anywhere_ ," Gerry snaps. This can't- this is not going to end like this. He won't let it. They were supposed to sit down and talk about the future, there was going to be a _future_ to talk about, for fuck's sake! "I will follow you to the end of the Lonely if I have to, you're _not_ going to shake me off this easily."

"I really liked that about you too. You made me feel wanted."

"That's because I do, you _idiot_!"

\------------------------------------------

"They're safe, see? At least for now." The voice is insidious, frustrating. It gives off the feeling of practiced politeness, empty pleasantries that mean even less than cold, uncaring silence. "It's very heartwarming, if ultimately futile, of course."

"I take it you're the reason I can't reach them?" Jon asks coldly. He can feel the Forsaken rearranging itself as they speak, the space between his and the two silhouettes hunched over in the distance growing wider and wider, so that every step he takes towards then moves him ten steps back.

"Does it really matter?" Peter asks. "They don't need you there, and it's only a matter of time before they give up."

"I will find them first," Jon says simply; there is no other choice, no scenario where they don't come out of this together. He'll make sure of it.

Peter laughs, and the sound echoes oddly around Jon, like only the ghost of it was reaching his ears.

"I doubt so. But you're welcome to keep trying."

"Why don't you come speak face to face, Lukas?" The fog around him takes on a sickly green hue where the glow of his eyes illuminate it, and the Lonely curls more thickly around him, hiding Peter from his Sight, from his reach. "Afraid of being seen?"

"I've dealt with your kind before, Archivist."

"So that's a yes, then."

"Fooling around with that toy of yours really have you some undeserved bravado, didn't it?" He sounds a bit disgruntled now, Jon notices with a muted, dark amusement. "Since he's not human, I'm not sure if he can even be consumed here, you know? I wonder if he'll just walk around forever until he shuts down."

"I'm not his only anchor," Jon scowls. That much is true, isn't it? Melanie-

"Please. Do you really believe he'll walk away without you? Both of you? Anchors are very effective, Archivist, as long as you aren't tied to a sinking one." Peter's smirk is palpable in his voice, and Jon grits his teeth. That's- it's not entirely wrong. Gerry's far too selfless, far too dedicated to putting others before himself.

"He'll do it for Martin," Jon says with far more vigour than he feels. That was the plan, and Gerry's not stupid in the least. Out of the three of them, Jon's the one that has a highest chance of survival here. If he has a chance to at least pull Martin out-

"Oh, but Martin doesn't want to go." Peter chuckles. "You let him fly too close, Archivist. This is his place now."

Silence stretches over them for a moment, the echo of Jon's breathing the only sound for miles.

"...You brought him in here, though." That's what Gerry said, what the Eye confirmed. Martin chose to come willingly, but it was Peter who opened the door. "You can kick him out. Both of them."

Peter doesn't respond immediately, and Jon focuses on the two silhouettes that he can see, but will never reach, not as long as the Lonely keeps pushing them apart.

"I could. For a price."

\------------------------------------------

It feels like his words resonate around them for an eternity, before the odd dissonance of the Lonely takes it away completely.

Martin is still there, barely visible and barely tangible under his bruising grip, the only sound between them is Gerry's agitated breathing.

"Martin?" Gerry asks carefully. While Martin has stopped fading away into the fog, he doesn't seem to be getting better either. But if his words kept him here, then- then maybe there's still a chance. "I'm- I know I'm not Jon, but- but I came here for you, alright? I _wanted_ to come for you."

But it doesn't work that way, does it? You can be the most desired, the most loved person in the world and still be alone.

"Why?" Martin asks. His eyes fix on Gerry's, grey and empty of any and all emotion, but it _has_ to mean something, that he hasn't left, that he still wants to know.

"We need you," Gerry answers truthfully. He doesn't know too well what it means, but it's been a while since this was just about Jon.

"You know that's a lie, Gerry." The corner of Martin's lips twitches into a humorless smile.

"It's _not_ , it's-"

"I think I want to stay. Nothing hurts in here. It feels... quiet. We can all be happy, like this." There's a longing in his voice when he says it, a soft wistfulness that Gerry doesn't trust right now.

"Martin, I'm- listen to me," Gerry asks, nearly begs. He shouldn't have been the one to find him, he realizes with a start. It has to be someone he loves, he remembers telling Melanie so long ago. And still the fact remains that Gerry's the only one here, and if he's not enough, then he'll have to remind him of the one who might just be. "Think of why you did this, think-

"...What?"

"Martin, who is your reason?"

\------------------------------------------

"You want me to stay in their place." Jon says quietly, clenching a fist in the fabric of his jumper as the realization dawns on him. "Why?"

Peter stalks around him, watching him under the cover provided by his patron. He can feel the Eye searching for him, but its intensity is growing fainter by the second, as the Archivist begins to bend under the weight of his own doubt.

"Trust me, Jon, the Eye has given me plenty of reasons. But I must admit I'm simply not too happy with Elias at the moment and I'm very curious to see what he'll do if you don't make it out of here." Bit of an understatement, honestly.

"I-"

"That's the offer," Peter interrupts. "What do you say, Archivist?"

The desolate questioning in Jon's face is an absolute _delight_ to behold.

"Take your time. Though I feel like the choice should be easy. Or are you hesitating because your pet undead will die without you anyways? You can't have everything, Jon." Peter tuts consolingly. "Either he dies out there, or the three of you stay in here."

"You said- you know Elias is planning something. He-"

"Oh, he'll try to get you back of course." Too much invested in this one, years of orchestrating his marks and survival. Elias won't just start over, Peter isn't even sure he _could_ start over, without the Mother's webs that drape over this one's shoulder as a blessing. "Granted, I'm not sure how much of you there'll be left by the time he works his way back into my good graces.But that's not necessarily a bad thing in your books, is it?"

"...It isn't." The thrum of the Eye in the air fades a little more, when Jon lets his head drop.

Peter isn't terribly surprised. He might not be Martin, whose entire core calls to the Forsaken like they are one and the same, but Jonathan Sims is still an incredibly lonely man.

It's about regret, in his case. Peter can feel all the mistimed connections that haunt him, when he reached out only to find it was far too late and he'd pushed way too far. The memory of waking up alone in a hospital room, and knowing he was neither expected nor wanted back.

"I thought so. Your friends will be much safer without you, Jon. You know that." He's not sure how much more convincing Jon actually needs, but it can't hurt to double down, he decides as he stops his pacing by his side and leans in to whisper in his ear. "You can't hurt anyone here."

"I... I suppose so."

"You know so." And Peter does too. Won't it be poetic, to keep Elias' pet in here as revenge for his own sabotaged ritual? Not much he can do, if there's no one to wear the crown. "It's all up to you, Jon. What do you want?"

Peter has dealt with beholders before, far more than he should, actually. He knows how they work, how for all they preach omniscience, they home in on a purpose, and become blind to everything else. Gertrude wanted war, Elias wants power, and this sad, broken man wishes uselessly for redemption, and if he can't have it, he'll have immolation.

"So? What will it be?" he asks.

Jon's head tilts up slowly, and Peter freezes at the intense neon green of his eyes, and the downward curve of his tightly pressed lips.

"A statement, I think," he says, and all around him the Watcher's eyes burn holes through the fog, pinning Peter in place like stakes, their focus so heavy it _stings_.

He tries to remain calm, to keep his fear from the Eye. This is his domain, and he can't be harmed here, not even by Elias' trained dog-

"Peter Lukas, _**you will give me your story.**_ "

\------------------------------------------

His reason.

Did he have one?

Was it saving the world, or did he just want to look good while killing himself? Was it revenge against these things that took all the ones he loved, or spite at not being taken himself?

This place makes it hard to think. All you can do is sit and feel the emptiness inside you, smell the tears and listen to the silence. Was that his reason, finding a place to escape to? Maybe he just wanted to rest, for once, forever.

He's so tired.

There's a man before him. His hands are heavy on Martin's shoulder and face, but so _careful_ , like he's made of glass or secrets. The man's eyes are beautiful, desperate mix of greens and blues, and his lips curl around words that barely reach him, words Martin doesn't know if he wants to hear.

He did have a reason, didn't he? It had a name and a face, a lopsided smile and eyes swimming with sadness.

Didn't he hate Martin? That's what they had in common, isn't it? Before the worms, before the fear.

Where is he now?

Martin remembers him, dead in all but name, laid on a hospital bed like a broken doll. His hand is limp in Martin's own, and every time he presses it to his lips Martin swears it's grown colder.

Was that his reason? What was he more afraid back then, the thought that he wouldn't wake up, or that he might?

The man before him speaks again, and his hands on him feel heavier, warmer.

He doesn't like him, Martin remembers. How easily he stepped into the Archives, how well _they_ fit together. Martin looks at him, and he doesn't know if he wants to tell him to go away or ask him what took him so long, why couldn't he have come before Martin gave up on his future for a chance at saving Jon's?

Martin tries to recall the man's name; maybe it'll help him figure out why he's here. It's a good name, he's sure, because he's a good man. A simple name, the kind you say with a smile. An incredibly, absolutely, undeniably mulish and irritating name, what on _Earth_ is he doing here?!

Martin came here to keep him _safe_ , because even knowing this was a trap for Jon, it was the only way to get Elias to stop hurting him, why would this idiot follow him in?!

Now all the work he did will be for nothing, because Martin knows as sure as the sky is blue that Gerry won't go away, won't let him fade into the grey. He'll find Martin again and again and again, until he answers his question, or the Lonely consumes them both.

This was a gamble he took to try and protect him, and now _both_ of them are here and Jon is lost in here too, and Martin wants to _scream_ at the absurdity of it all.

\------------------------------------------

"Did you pack-"

"I packed the first things I saw, Basira, if they don't like it they're going to have to _suck it up_."

"That's fair."

"Where are they going?"

"North. Daisy had- she has a place. A cottage on the countryside."

"Oh, Martin will eat that stuff right up."

\------------------------------------------

"-tin come on." Gerry tries again. Martin is still there, still tangible under his hands, but he still won't talk, won't look at him, the only sign of life to him is the slight furrowing of his brow. "Think- think of him, he's coming for you, we both did. Tim would've come too if he'd been there I'm sure, he's a prick but he loves you. So many people care, Martin, but we need you to care too, we-"

It's alright, he tells himself with just the slightest edge of panic. He's got time, and he'll keep going until the Lonely steals his last breath from his lungs, they are _not_ going to lose Martin.

"Just- you have to- Martin I know you have what you need to break it, but you need to remember it yourself. You need-"

"I need you-" Martin's voice rings out clear and firm, without the ringing of the Lonely, and Gerry freezes. Martin's eyes are bright and green and burning with righteous indignation as he scowls down at him. "-to stop being so incredibly _infuriating_!"

And then Martin is collapsing against him, and it's all Gerry can do to hold him steady as a wave of relief washes over him.

"I'm- sorry?" He asks, his voice tinged with confusion.

"No you're not," comes Martin's sullen voice, muffled against his shoulder.

Gerry lets out a bark of somewhat hysterical laughter, tightening his grip around Martin's frame. He feels _solid_ , and growing warmer by the second, and Gerry feels a little like he did when Jon opened his eyes after so much begging.

"No, I'm not."

\------------------------------------------

The man gasps in exhaustion and pain, as the last of his tale tumbles out of his lips.

The Archivist watches, adds the story to his archive with the same delight with which one would enjoy a feast.

It's a pathetic, hilarious joke that Peter Lukas ultimately dies protecting the Pupil's secrets, when the Archivist demands the truth.

The Eye hums in delight, and the Forsaken shies away from its unblinking gaze, from the power of its chosen, from the future this promises.

It knows with glorious certainty that when the Archive speaks next, the world will listen.

\------------------------------------------

Martin feels the Lonely break around them like something being ripped from his chest.

He misses it immediately, the pungent smell of salt and humidity, and the emptiness inside him. The arms around his shoulders, the scent of lavender and ink under his nose, the warmth of another body pressed tightly against his is _overwhelming_.

"-'re back!" He hears Basira scream somewhere, and the sound of echoing steps coming closer.

"Hey there," Gerry whispers somewhere close to his ear. "I have someone for you."

And Martin's heart _drops_ , because he knows who that is, and he knows what he said the last time he saw him. How could he forgive him for that? For turning him away when he came to him with a promise of freedom, of a future together? Of-

"Martin?" Jon says his name like a prayer, like he doesn't know if he's more afraid of his silence or his response, and when Martin lifts his face from Gerry's shoulder, he finds that he looks much the same, his teeth worrying nervously at his bottom lip as his dark eyes search Martin's face for... for what?

"Jon." Martin's own voice is a pitiful, exhausted thing, but the name sounds just _right_ in his lips, like a memory, like an answer to a question he can't bear to think right now.

It's like Jon's strings have been cut, and he goes down on his knees by their side, slotting himself right under the arm Gerry lifts for him. Martin has a spare second to think of how _well_ they fit together, before Jon buries his face in his chest and it hits Martin that _he's here too_ , held between them like he belongs, like they were waiting for him.

"I'm sorry I didn't find you," Jon whispers into his chest. He feels _nothing_ like Martin imagined, and is somehow much more real for that. "I'm sorry I let it get this far."

What could he possibly say to that? That it's not Jon's fault that Martin wanted to die? That he's sorry too, because now Jon has all the marks and nobody knows what that means, but it can't be good?

Objectively speaking, Martin knows it would've been much better for them -maybe even for the whole world, who knows what Elias is thinking?- if they'd let him in the Lonely.

It's tough to voice that aloud however, with Gerry's arms around him and Jon tucked so perfectly under his chin. Their presence _hurts_ , but Martin hasn't felt this much like himself ever since Tim first came, and he knows he _needs_ them here precisely for this reason. Without the Lonely's overbearing, suffocating presence all around him, it's all too easy to see just how close he came to losing himself.

"...I've missed you," Martin says in the end, probably long past the time they've stopped waiting for an answer. Still, it's the truth, and Martin's spent so long denying it that it feels almost like another lie. He tightens his arms around Jon, partly to check if he's allowed, but mostly to confirm he's actually real and there.

Gerry clears his throat a little. "Would you like me to leave you two alone?" he asks quietly.

 _'You found me,'_ Martin wants to say. ' _You found me, and you didn't let go, why would I want you to leave?'_

Words are still difficult though, especially with the fog still trying to pull at him, yelling at him from all sides that he doesn't matter, that they saved him out of some misguided sense of heroism, and not any particular interest for him. That it is he who is intruding, that they could've lost each other, and it would've been his fault.

Martin shakes his head and shifts to lean a bit more comfortably on his shoulder. His neck is already starting to smart from bending down, but even the pain is a blessing, a reminder that he's alive, that he's human and _can_ feel things, good and bad.

The faint scent of lavender drifting up from Gerry's hair and Jon's comforting weight in his arms are grounding. Soothing.

"Martin?!" Tim's arrival is heralded by the room growing warmer, as if to chase away the remnants of the fog that clings to Martin's tired bones. "Fuck. You're- are you alright?"

"Right as rain," Martin rasps out, cracking an eye open -when did he close them?- to look up at him. Even splashed in blood and dirt, Tim's a sight for sore eyes, the concern in his gaze so simple and sincere not even the Lonely can twist it into loathing. "What are the bags for?"

"Management said you had too many vacation days saved up," Tim croaks with a laugh just this side of hysterical. "We booked you a holiday."

And Martin would like to respond to the joke, he really would, but his eyelids are growing heavy with exhaustion, and it's all he can do to aim a smile -who knew he could still do that?- his way, before he lets go.

"You have to get away before he comes back-" is the last he hears Basira say.

It's not over, he remembers, they're not done. But for the time being, they're all together and they're safe, and Martin is here because they want him to; it still feels like a lie, but nothing else makes sense and he has to allow the tentative, absurd hope that it might be true.

Martin decides that, maybe for once, the rest can wait.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, sorry for the late update. I didn't forget lol I've just been feeling sorta off with the end of the year coming and everything.
> 
> Hope this brings you some joy

**XX**

Probably due to the Distortion's influence, Gerry's eyes take a bit longer than usual to adapt to the darkness. The first thing that hits him is the scent of grass and wet dirt, and he gives Jon a quizzical look as he hears Helen's door close behind them.

"One of- of Daisy's safehouses," Jon responds to the unspoken question. The name is drenched in so many feelings it's difficult to separate just one, but the overall taste is grief, and Gerry has to agree. It's always painful to lose someone to the worst parts of themselves. "Are- do you need help?"

Gerry snorts. "Sure, let's trade," he jokes, shifting Martin on his back. He can't really _see_ Jon rolling his eyes, but he's fairly sure it's happening just from the scoff in the dark.

"You're hilarious."

"One of my many talents. Just- will there be a place for him to sleep? I wouldn't want to put him on the floor." As his vision grows used to the darkness, he can see the faint outline of a small cottage on their left, and the irregular shapes of bushes and other plants all around them. Behind them is a little stone fence with a wrought iron gate, which he supposes is the door Helen brought them through. 

"I- yes. There's- there's a bed. And a couch." Out the corner of his eye, he sees Jon bend down and tilt a flowerpot to retrieve something from underneath. "Both are comfortable enough."

"Good. It probably isn't a great idea to leave him alone tonight," Gerry says carefully as Jon pushes the key in the lock. Martin will have to forgive him the awkwardness of waking up in bed with them. 

"Yes, I didn't think so. The bed is- it's not big enough, but- well, the one at the flat wasn't either."

Gerry smiles, and he leans down to press a kiss to Jon's temple in the penumbra of the cottage. "That's the spirit."

And in they go.

"So you killed him?" Gerry asks a few hours later. The first suggestion of morning light is already filtering through the clouded windows, and he finds a certain feeling of peace in the sound of Martin's quiet, steady breathing. Between them, with their joined hands resting on his stomach, Martin sleeps still; he looks a bit grey still, but he's still breathing and he's still _there_ , and that's what really matters.

"I did. It- he wouldn't have let me reach you otherwise." Jon exhales slowly. "I'm- I know I shouldn't have-"

"Jon, I promised Lukas months ago that if you didn't kill him, I would. You just... stole my shot, I suppose." Gerry shrugs. He can feel Jon's gaze glued to his face though, and he sighs. "Listen, I'm not about to condone you killing people, you know that. But- I don't think we could've saved Martin if you hadn't gotten rid of him."

"Maybe you could've pulled him out."

"And maybe it would've pulled me in instead." Gerry shrugs again. "We don't know what could've happened Jon, only what did, and what happened is that you saved Martin. That's- don't forget about that."

"I don't. I can't." Jon sighs, and Gerry pushes up on his elbow to look at him. He's looking at Martin's face like a bird would at the sky, and Gerry finds himself smiling fondly at the sight. "I guess- I guess we were lucky you decided to hound him after I went into the coffin, huh?"

"A kindred spirit, I had to help. Just two idiots moping after the same, bigger idiot."

"You two do have terrible luck when it comes to crushes, I suppose." Jon says it lightly, with a small, crooked smile on his lips. Gerry still doesn't particularly like the aftertaste of the words. 

"Nothing to do with luck," he says, shrugging. "Loving you is a conscious choice, Jon. You can ask him when he wakes up, if you don't believe me."

"I'm- I think that would be too forward."

Gerry rolls his eyes. "You're ridiculous."

" _You're_ ridiculous."

\----------------------------------

When Martin wakes up, his first thought is that he feels warm.

It's something he hasn't felt in a while, since his connection to the Lonely became strong enough that not even Tim's presence was enough to fend off the cold. 

The bed below him is soft and comfortable enough, but unfamiliar still. It's been a long time since he's woken up on a stranger's bed -it always made him feel worse the next day-, but what surprises him the most is the feeling of the two bodies pressed up against his sides.

And then it all starts coming back.

He opens his eyes slowly, follows the dust floating lazily in the air across bright beams of sunlight that paint the wooden walls gold. 

"You're awake," Jon says quietly by his left. 

"How are you feeling?" And that's Gerry on his right.

The warmth, the peace, the quiet concern in their words. If this is a dream then let it be so, Martin decides as he closes his eyes again. 

"Alive," he says after a moment. "You- you bought me back."

"You decided to come back. It was all you, Martin." Gerry's voice is gentle, and Martin wonders for a moment how it isn't this what made it into the statements. It's always about his looks, about the cryptic knowledge he dispensed to those in need, but there's nothing about the way Gerry Keay decides that you _matter_ , and leaves you no other choice but to believe it. "You remembered the things you love."

"I remembered I was right pissed off at you, what were you two _thinking_ , following me in there?" Martin snaps back. His chest hurts; the Lonely keeps trying to whisper at him, how he could've been the end of them, how he dragged them into danger, isn't that just what he always does? Cause trouble and force others to help him out?

Jon sighs. "We were thinking about you, of course."

'Of course', he says. Like it was a foregone conclusion, like they didn't even have to think about it. Martin's closed eyes sting and burn a little.

"Jon?"

"Hm?"

"Am- what am I now?" Martin asks. It's a lot easier to focus on things that can be categorized, explained, that aren't just a tangle of red-hot feelings much too big for his chest. "Am I an avatar?"

Gerry shifts on the bed to press a little tighter against him. The feeling isn't entirely pleasant, because there's still a part of Martin that aches for the cool emptiness of the Forsaken. Still, he doesn't move away. He doesn't want to.

"As- as much as you can be, without dying." Jon sits up, and Martin opens his eyes again to find him looking down at him with his face alight in thinly-veiled concern. "I- Martin, you _chose_ the Lonely."

"I did. I- I thought it would keep you safe." It didn't, of course, and he only really ended giving Jon the last of his marks. 

"I think you'd be the first and only person to ever have chosen the Forsaken out of love." Gerry chuckles and sits up as well. "You just like breaking the rules, don't you?"

"Like- like you're one to talk," Martin croaks out. The two of them are backlit by the early morning sun, like a vision, like a dream. The weight of their gazes on him is overwhelming, and it scares him a little how much he doesn't want it to stop.

"Well, maybe Jon here just has a type." Gerry smirks, and he leans down to press a kiss to a sputtering Jon's cheek, before he turns and gives Martin another one of those searing seafoam gazes. "Get some more rest, I'll go see what we're working with."

The bed bounces a little when he climbs to his feet, and the door to the little bedroom squeaks closed behind him, leaving the two of them alone and in a dense, loaded silence.

"Oh, and talk a little!" Comes muffled through the door, Gerry's voice tinted with unmistakable amusement, before his footsteps fade away.

\----------------------------------

"...I feel like we've been tricked, somehow," Martin mumbles after a couple seconds.

Jon lets out something between a snort and a sigh. "I think this might be payback for hoisting Tim on him after the hunters came," he confesses. This still feels unreal, that Martin is alive, that he's here, that he's not sending him away. "But I- we do need to talk. Not- not now, if you don't want to. I mean it's- you're still recovering and-"

"I don't really- is there anything for us to talk about?" Martin shrugs. "He wasn't wrong, you know? I- the Lonely was always there, but I did choose it for you. Every step of the way."

Ah. 

Jon sighs in a futile attempt to calm down his thundering heart, as he looks down at Martin on the bed. The soft green of his eyes is almost hypnotizing, and the streak of white in his dark hair feels like a medal, a show that he went through hell and came out stronger.

"I- can- would It be okay if I lay down with you again?" He asks. Before, it was a necessity, a measure to keep Martin grounded; this time Jon wants to do it because Martin wants him to. 

"I would like that," Martin breathes out after a moment. "I- where are we?" He adds after Jon has laid down a few inches from him.

"Scotland," Jon replies. "This- it was Daisy's house."

"Was?"

"I- Daisy..." Jon cuts himself with a sigh, when words refuse to come.

"Oh, Jon..." Martin whispers, and his hand grazes against Jon's softly. "I'm- is she-"

"Not- not dead. It's- worse, I think. Basira hasn't gotten around to start tracking her, but she will soon, I suppose." And when she finds her... who knows? He can See many things, but not the strength of Basira's will.

"I'm really sorry."

"Me too. But- if anyone has a way to get her back, it'll be Basira. We just- we need to hope for the best, I think," he says. Martin's gaze is burning holes in the side of his face, and Jon turns to him with a raised eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing. It's just- it's rare to hear you be optimistic."

"...Oh." Jon feels his face heat up at the- it's not quite an accusation, but there's a little twist to the edge of Martin's lips that make it feel like so much more than just a casual remark. "I- Gerry's contagious."

"He really is." Martin shakes his head a little, rolling his eyes with a smile. It makes something unclench inside Jon's chest, until the smile starts to fade, and Martin schools his expression into a careful blank mask. "Listen, Jon- I- he wasn't wrong. What I feel for you-"

"Martin-" Jon says, his voice strained and much too weak to be heard. Sure, objectively, he knew it was very probable that Gerry was right, but- but it's still a whole other thing to hear Martin sort of say it. 

"-but I'm- I know it isn't fair to expect it back, or-" Martin turns to face him, and Jon wonders once more how he ever looked into these eyes and doubted the emotions so clearly written in them. He really was dense. _Is_ dense, probably, but he's getting better, hopefully. "I'm- I'll get out of your hair, just- go back home. Tim's there, and-"

"Martin," Jon repeats, quietly but firmly enough that Martin seems to latch on to the calm behind it. He's spent so long being afraid these past few months -these past few _years_ -, that even Jon is a bit surprised at the peace he feels right now. "Do you want to leave?"

"I- I don't. But I- the last thing I want is to get between the two of you, Jon. I- you deserve each other," he says with such finality that Jon can guess the other half of that statement even though Martin doesn't voice it. 

Jon turns his hand on the bed, so that his fingers are just the slightest bit tangled in Martin's larger ones.

"I walked into the Lonely for a reason, Martin." Jon tries a smile, and is rewarded by the slight widening of Martin's eyes, the soft parting of his lips. 

"...Ah," Martin says after a moment. "But- but then-"

"Can I let you in on a secret?"

"A sec- what?" Martin frowns. 

Jon leans in closer to Martin, _almost_ close enough, if any of them were inclined. He's delighted, when Martin doesn't move back. 

"Jon?"

"I think-" Jon starts in a conspiratorial whisper, very aware of how far one's voice can carry when one's connected to someone else by some uncanny Eye bond "-my boyfriend might like you too, Mister Blackwood."

Somewhere deep into the cottage, someone drops what sounds like a pan, or a pot, and Jon snorts both at Gerry's indignation and Martin's wide eyes. 

"I- Jon-"

"You don't- if you want to leave, we won't stop you." Jon gives a light squeeze to the fingers trapped in his. "But we don't- we would very much like it if you'd stay with us for as long as you feel comfortable." He waits a couple seconds, before he leans in to rest his forehead against Martin's. 

"I- I think I would be okay with that," Martin whispers back, his breath tickling on Jon's lips. 

"That's good. I've been informed you and I can both be very stubborn, so I'm glad to hear we're on the same page."

Martin chuckles slowly, almost like he's forgotten how to do so. "Is he really one to talk, though?"

"Oh trust me, he has zero self awareness."

And that's that, Jon decides. Love is not a thing that's said, so he would very much like for a chance for it to happen. 

\----------------------------------

The first few days are the weirdest by far.

They move carefully around each other, an odd tension in the air that's just waiting to break. Working around the house helps, Gerry thinks; it's difficult to worry about where you stand with someone when _both_ of you are being berated by your terrible cleaning skills.

"I somehow didn't expect you to be so good at this," Gerry says after Jon practically wrestles the dusting cloth off his hands.

"You should've seen how I left Georgie's flat." Jon pushes some sweat-soaked locks out of his face, leaving a long streak of dust across his cheek. "Being on the run from the police is a better motivator than any playlist, if you ask me."

Gerry watches him go at the kitchen table with remember vigor, rolling his eyes with an amused snort that Martin mirrors from where he's sitting at the other side of the kitchen. He looks at him over Jon's head, surprised once again by just how comforting the green of his eyes is, and the spark of fond amusement as their gazes meet.

"How are you feeling today?" Gerry clears his throat to ask. 

Martin makes a noncommittal noise, tilting his hand this way and that. "Better, with something to do. I think we'll need some groceries soon... Tim only packed food for a few days."

Gerry knows that, and Jon knows that too. None of them have been eating any more than a few bites when Martin watches them, partly because they don't need it, but mostly because Martin does, and the longer the food lasts, the longer Martin can take to recov-

"You two should go find some, actually." Jon pushes the hair out of his face again, before he huffs in frustration and ties the dusting rag on like a bandana. "It's not like you're helping here."

"Excuse me?" Gerry arches an eyebrow. "You told us to get out of your way!"

"I did _not_." Jon gives him a scathing look over his shoulder. Gerry winks at him. Jon quickly turns back to the table, and Gerry's stomach flips a little when he hears Martin snort again. 

"It was sort of implicit," Martin says quietly. "I sort of assumed we weren't doing a good enough job for you when you took our things." And he gestures to the raggedy broom in Jon's hands, which Jon robbed him off before he went after Gerry's rag. 

Jon at least has the decency to look ashamed, but he doesn't give either utensil back. "Well, it's ridiculous to have three people cleaning when there's more to be done."

And yes, they- they do need the groceries -or rather, Martin does- but still... "I would much rather not leave you alone," Gerry says.

Jon's lips curl into one of those lopsided smiles, his dark eyes looking sympathetically up at him. "I'll be fine for a few hours. And if I'm not, I'll- I'll know where you are."

"...You should ask the Eye to make you another me. That way I'd be able to keep both of you out of trouble," Gerry grumbles. It's not like he can tell Jon no anyways, and he wouldn't let Martin go out alone either.

"You? Really?" Martin asks dryly from his end of the table. Gerry tries to focus on Jon's shit-eating grin even as he feels Martin's eyes burning holes on the side of his face. 

"All I'll say-" Gerry lifts his hands in surrender. "Is that out of the three of us, I'm the only one that has never pissed off an avatar so much that they've gotten thrown into an alternate dimension."

"I'm pretty sure Peter was about to. And Simon too." Martin shrugs.

Jon scowls. "Wait, Sim- Simon Fairchild?"

Oh. Oh yeah, he didn't-

"I'll go get our jackets."

"You didn't tell him?!" Martin's voice is somewhere between scandalized and delighted as Gerry retreats from the kitchen in a hurry.

\----------------------------------

"I thought he didn't need to sleep," Martin whispers. The fire they built in the tiny chimney crackles happily, warming them just enough that Martin himself starting to get drowsy.

Jon looks up from Gerry's head on his lap, his hands stilling on the small braid he's weaving by his temple. "He doesn't. He just likes it."

"And you don't? Martin asks. Gerry has, as usual, taken up most of the sofa, which means Jon is pressed flush against Martin's side, and his presence there is a lot more warming than the fire.

"Not with all the nightmare eating, I don't particularly enjoy it." Jon snorts and goes back to his braid, leaving Martin entirely at a loss as to what he should answer.

There's a long moment in which the only sounds in the room are their breathing and the crackle of the fire, before Jon speaks again.

"I'm- that was a joke."

"O- oh."

"...Sorry," Jon adds a bit more quietly. 

"I- no need to be sorry. I-" What could Martin possibly say? That sometimes he forgets he and Jon don't actually _know_ each other? He should say something about how he'll try harder, how he wishes he clicked with him as easily as Gerry does, how he's been trying -and failing- to understand the mystery that is Jonathan Sims since that morning years ago when he came to the Institute expecting to be berated for being stupid enough to get trapped at his flat by the very things he was sent to investigate, and was instead offered sympathy -however clumsy it was- and a safe place to stay. 

He really shouldn't be here. 

This place, this- this little pocket far from the world that they've found for themselves, this is the only place where the two of them can be safe. He's just intruding-

"Martin," Jon whispers. His voice is careful, soft. His fingers are tense where they're buried in Gerry's ink-black hair. 

"Hm?" Martin asks. There's an odd reverberation to his voice, and the room feels like it's grown colder, even though the fire burns bright still.

"I- you're- stay with me, please." The end of Jon's sentence curls up like a question, and Martin arches an eyebrow. "Your- look at your hands."

He does, and then he's looking straight through them, at his lap and the sofa beneath him. 

"Oh. I- l don't know what to do." Martin not quite asks, feeling the comforting numbness of the Lonely drape over him like a blanket, drowning even the fear at the thought of curling mist and empty space, so empty, forever.

"Wh- what do you need to hear?" Jon's voice is tinted with the slightest bit of compulsion, and Martin feels the truth escape him before he can even think the words.

"That I'm wanted here. That I matter." Ah, he thinks as he watches _something_ wash over Jon's face. This is- it's pretty pathetic. 

"Hm. I-" Jon clears his throat. "I'm not terribly good at this. I wish- I wish you could compel me instead."

"What would you say?" asks that little, treacherous part of Martin that doesn't quite want to go. 

Jon's gaze lifts to his again, his eyes fading back into the usual, beautiful dark brown after the compulsion.

"I'd say you are loved. But I'd also- I think I'd also say that you are worth so much more than the love others bear you, and- and that I'd be very glad to remind you of that as many times as it's needed."

It isn't a compelled confession of course, it could never be. It maybe feels a lot more sincere because of that. 

This is not the truth torn out by force, but one freely given by a man who has decided Martin is worth all the trouble he brings.

Pushing the Lonely away hurts, and all his feelings returning at once is both dizzying and overwhelming, but Martin is glad to feel the numbness go. 

He is even more glad, when Jon's head leans on his shoulder, and one of his hands leaves its nest in Gerry's hair to come to tangle in one of Martin's own.

"Thank you," he whispers, squeezing back at Jon's thin fingers. 

Jon's grip tightens, and Martin's heartbeat speeds up when his hand is brought up to a pair of chapped lips, and a kiss is pressed to his knuckles. 

\----------------------------------

Gerry's always faintly aware of where Jon is, like a bird that knows where it nests no matter how many turns it takes. Even now as he fades back into consciousness, he's able to feel Jon's presence, steady and calm by his side.

"You watch us a lot," he says, feeling his lips curl into that easy smile Jon always brings out of him.

"Isn't that my job description?" Jon asks, and Gerry snorts, opening his eyes. "I just- I shouldn't sleep. And sometimes I just need to remind myself you're safe."

Gerry lifts a hand to cup the side of Jon's face. "He's recovering well enough."

"I meant you too, you know?" Jon says dryly. Gerry frowns a little, confused.

"Me?"

Jon gives a long-suffering sigh -which Gerry thinks is incredibly hypocritical of him- before he slides down the bed to lay down flush against him. 

"I was worried about you too, when I got to the Panopticon," he whispers, his words punctuated by Martin's soft snoring. "You were just there, unconscious. Bleeding."

Oh, Gerry thinks. He's not sure why the thought is so surprising, but for some reason he never stopped to think that Jon had been as worried for him as he was for Martin, in that moment.

"I was fine. I-"

"I thought I had lost both of you." Jon rests his hand on Gerry's chest, right where his heart doesn't beat. It burns, and it's heavy in a way Gerry knows has nothing to do with its actual mass. He doesn't think anyone has ever been concerned about losing him before. 

"Never," Gerry whispers after a moment. "Not if I have any say in the matter."

"What if you don't? The Eye-"

"Didn't you say so yourself? I'm not the Eye's, Jon. I'm yours." Gerry scowls up at the wooden ceiling like he could glare a hole through it and at the Watcher itself. "I'm here to stay, for as long as you want me."

"I'm- that's good." Jon swallows heavily. "I think I will want you for a very long time."

\----------------------------------

"He's been gone for a while," Martin comments. Jon looks up from the book he's reading, only to find Martin leaning on the mossy stone fence to look down the road that leads to the town.

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, before he climbs to his feet and walks over to him.

"He's alright," he says as he comes to lean on the fence as well, pressing himself against Martin's side. "He's looking for a shop that carries his brand of hair dye."

Martin snickers above him, which Jon finds warming enough to ignore the cold countryside breeze. If he finds himself leaning back even further, and Martin shifting to let him lean on his chest instead, it's nobody's business but their own. 

"Is he really?"

"I'm afraid so. And let me warn you, he's a mess. Mark my words, I'm going to end up doing it myself, unless we want the bathroom turning into a crime scene." Jon gives a long-suffering sigh, and is rewarded by the rumbling of Martin's chest as he laughs again. 

"I could help. I've never done it before, but it sounds fun." There's a slight questioning to the offer, like Martin is testing the waters, or expecting to be refused.

Jon turns around without stepping back, bringing a hand up to rest on Martin's shoulder. Martin's eyes are fixed on him, their colors a perfect mix of the vibrant grass and the stormy sky behind him. 

He will probably never be free of the Forsaken's influence, but for the time being he _wants_ to be here with him. With them.

"I would love that. I'm sure he would too." 

"You think?" Martin is leaning down in a way that feels almost subconscious, that indicates Jon might be something to be desired rather than feared. Jon finds it utterly intoxicating.

"I know." He wishes for a moment Martin, like Gerry, could feel the truth in his words. Since it's not the case, he figures he'll have to settle for repeating it as many times as it needs to sink in. "Martin?" 

"Hm?" Martin asks. Jon curls the hand in his sweater into a fist. Martin leans down a bit more. 

There's something to be said about the quiet loneliness of the countryside, and how nobody hears the seams on Martin's sweater strain. No one sees any kiss that may or may not occur, and if there is a single tear running down a round cheek after it, no one is there to witness Jon wiping it away.

It is a good kind of isolation, one that feels safe, because they're together.

\----------------------------------

They two of them are a lot more relaxed around each other, Gerry's noticed. Martin still walks into rooms like he's intruding, Jon still treats the two of them like they're made of glass, like they could disappear if he's not keeping an eye on them, but they're getting better. 

Jon fits in Martin's arms like he was made to be there, Gerry thinks. Far from any bad feelings, it ignites in his chest a fierce rush of fondness, and no small amount of protectiveness.

They deserve to be like this forever, with him watching only from as far as the other end of the sofa, with Martin smoothing his thumb over the eye on Gerry's ankle that's resting on Jon's lap. 

It's cosy and warm and normal, and as much as Gerry yearned for it, the sheer amount of comfort he feels sitting here is enough to scare him. Which makes him slip back into the safe, well known space of teasing Jon.

"-u should've seen him," Gerry continues with a smile. "It was always 'no Gerry, it's selfish of me to care about Martin and I'm the worst person in history' and 'Martin is doing this to save the world, it has nothing to do with me because again, I'm the worst person in history', was he like this before?"

Gerry catches Jon glaring at him, and he gives him a scrunched nose smile and a blown kiss. He goes red in two seconds flat; works like a charm every time.

"Oblivious?" Martin smiles softly -everything Martin does is soft, Gerry's constantly marvelled at how a person that has been hurt so much can still find kindness in himself for others. "Sort of. Did he tell you about the time he thought I was a ghost?"

Jon groans and turns to hide his face against Martin's shoulder, which immediately has Gerry straightening up in interest.

"You know he didn't. Tell me all about it."

\----------------------------------

The kitchen smells _heavenly_ when Martin steps in, and he finds Gerry already perched on one of the chairs, looking expectantly at-

"You can cook?" Martin blurts out before he can stop himself. Gerry chuckles at Jon's flinch, leaning against Martin's side when he comes close enough to where he's sitting. It's- he's incredibly tactile, Martin was surprised to discover. He wonders if it caught Jon off-guard too at first, to be touched so casually. Personally, Martin likes it, and he likes it a lot more because every touch burns a bit more of the Lonely away.

"You don't have to sound so surprised." Jon turns to face them wielding a scowl and a wooden ladle. "I'm a grown man."

"Well you _did_ invest weeks into convincing us you stabbed yourself with a bread knife, forgive me for believing you." Martin smiles.

"I want to hear that one," Gerry pipes up, wrapping an arm around Martin's waist. "So? What's for dinner?"

"Just some beef stew." Jon steps a bit closer, and Gerry leans forward, lips parted. "You're ridiculous. You don't even need to eat," he says, but he gets the ladle close enough that Gerry can close his lips around the edge.

It's a bit odd to see Jon interacting so easily with someone, when he's usually so guarded. It's... a good look. They look comfortable together. He's thought that ever since he found them sleeping at the Archives that night after the coffin, though back then it hadn't brought him the warmth it does now.

"Whoa, this is _really_ good." Gerry's eyebrows rise up his forehead. "You're full of secrets, Mr. Sims."

"Again, no need to sound so surprised." Jon rolls his eyes, but Martin's lips twitch at the satisfied smile on his face. "Anyways, it's about ready. Do you want to eat now?"

Martin is so busy watching Gerry make faces at Jon that it takes him a moment to realize the question is aimed at him.

"Oh, I'm- I could eat, but are you two... oh." Martin fidgets a little when something clicks in his mind. "Is this for me?"

"Huh?" Jon looks up from where he's scowling at Gerry's faces, looking a bit confused. "I made enough for three."

"Yes but- you two don't really... you know." Martin makes a vague gesture, between the two of them and the pot boiling happily on Daisy's little stove. 

"Oh. Well, no." Jon shrugs. "We can, but we don't need to."

"Then why-"

"It's not about the food." Gerry pats Martin's hip before he climbs up to his feet. "It's about you." And he just up and walks away to grab three bowls from the cupboard, leaving the two of them staring at each other in loaded silence. 

Jon clears his throat, averting his gaze. "He's right, you know?"

Martin feels his face heat up. After embracing the Lonely so closely, it's still overwhelming to have all these emotions so close to the surface all the time. Did he feel this much before, or is his- his mind, his heart, making up for all the time he wouldn't let it feel anything? 

"I'm- thank you."

Jon smiles, small, lopsided and sweet, and Martin feels his heart flutter in his chest a little. "Anytime."

The stew _is_ surprisingly good, Martin discovers a couple moments later, and he makes sure to voice his appreciation after the first few spoonfuls. 

Jon rolls his eyes and scoffs, but Martin can see the pleased smile he hides behind his chipped mug, and he knows he will gladly spend the rest of his life complimenting Jon only to see that view.

"I'm- it's good to know you like it. I haven't had anyone to cook for in a while," Jon mumbles quietly. 

"Are you kidding me? This is some good stuff." Gerry taps the spoon against his bottom lip with a clink of metal on metal. "I never learned to cook."

Martin arches an eyebrow. Gerry doesn't seem like the kind of person to depend on someone else for something as basic as feeding. "How come?" he asks, and it's only then that he catches the slight head shake Jon is giving him.

"Bad mum, no dad." Gerry shrugs, and _oh_. "I'm sure you can relate."

Martin freezes, eyes wide. It's- he definitely _can_ , but he's never- Gerry says it so carelessly, like it has no weight at all, even when Martin knows perfectly well Elias used it against him before... which he can _also_ relate to.

"That's one way of putting it." Martin snorts before he can stop himself. Out the corner of his eye, he can see Jon relax as well, once it's clear none of them took it the wrong way. "In my defense though, I learned to cook on my own _after_ I grew up. What's your excuse?"

"Spooky books. Never really had much time, I lived on what was cheap and quick." Gerry winks, giving them a smug grin. "I guess you two will just have to take care of me."

Martin rolls his eyes "Or you know, teach you." He taps at Gerry's nose with the back of his spoon, and smiles fondly when said nose is scrunched at him. 

Jon just watches them like one would a sunset, and Martin's heart gives another jump. He just might be able to get used to this.

\----------------------------------

There's a single beam of moonlight filtering through the window, painting a stark white line over the two sleeping forms before him.

Jon watches them from the other side of the bed, immobile in his fear of waking them up. 

He drinks in the sight of them like a dry field drinks up rain after a drought; Gerry's brow finally relaxed in his sleep, his head resting on Martin's shoulder, his hair a tangled puddle of black against Martin's off-white sleeping shirt. His hand resting over Martin's heart, like he'd been counting the beats to fall asleep. 

Martin's nose is buried in Gerry's hair, and Jon feels a soft pang of excitement, when he realizes he's not the only one that finds safety in the faded scent of lavender anymore, when he notices Martin's free hand is stretched towards him, and that he's allowed, encouraged even, to grab that hand, to press up against them and take comfort in the warmth of their bodies. 

Instead, he watches. This should be what his powers are about, he thinks wistfully. What wouldn't he give, to Know love instead of fear; to build an Archive out of the memories of these two. 

Write a thousand statements about the feeling of their fingers in his hair, the soft pressure of their lips on his skin, the lazy smiles every morning, the quiet snoring that lulls him to peace during those precious nights he's allowed to sleep. Perhaps Martin is rubbing off on him, Jon thinks, but they deserve it. They deserve to be the subject of a thousand poems, after fighting tooth and nail for their happiness, and finding it in a small cottage where their only problem is that the bathtub isn't big enough for the three of them. 

The world is still threatening to fall down around them, but it can wait. It can wait until this becomes the new normal, until they can go out and fight again, with the thought of coming home as their fuel. 

There's a well known click under the bed, and Jon smiles, chuckling. 

"I don't think so," he whispers. "I think... I'd rather tell them when they're awake."

The tape recorder clicks again almost sullenly, but Jon pays it no mind. The time for secrets is over, and the promise of waking up to them again and again, of mapping their every reaction for the rest of his life... that feels like a happy ending.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'sup
> 
> Sorry I can't really keep up with a consistent posting schedule anymore

**XXI**

Martin doesn't wake up with a start. His heart isn't hammering in his chest and his breathing isn't shallow and hurried; his nightmares are not the kind that makes you feel in danger, the kind your body wants to wake up from.

They're... gentle.

Calm walks down into a soft grey expanse where he knows nothing can hurt him, because he is alone asides from his thoughts, and the sadness that permeates his every step.

He guesses it must show somehow when he's dreaming of the Lonely, because he usually wakes up to Jon or Gerry's gently concerned voices, and a hand nudging at his shoulder until he decides it's time to come back.

Funnily enough, it's the lack of those what does it this time; if neither of the two is waking him up, that means it's one of those rare, _blessed_ nights in which the three of them were able to sleep, and they're going to be pretty sad if they wake up and find that Martin dreamt himself into the Lonely.

He wants to think they'd be at least, even if it's a bit selfish.

It's with that want that he opens his eyes to the darkness of the bedroom, and he turns to Jon with a slow-spreading smile when he hears him muttering something about a cat in his sleep. He doesn't Watch people's nightmares on the nights Gerry feeds him, and it's nice to know he's just having a regular dream. It feels... normal. Like what Martin wants the rest of their lives to be.

He looks over Jon's shoulder, to see how Gerry's doing, and his stomach flips when he notices the man is not in bed with them.

It's okay, it doesn't have to be something ominous, Martin thinks. His heartbeat is speeding up _now_ though, as he climbs off the bed and investigates the empty bathroom, before risking the rest of the cottage. People go for midnight snacks, that's a normal thing to do. Even if Gerry doesn't get hungry, he still likes to eat.

He jokes and says it makes him feel like a person, though Martin thinks he's the most human of the three of them, whenever he watches him hold Jon in his arms, looking down at the man like he's surprised he's still there, and the soft light of the cottage projecting a golden hue over his dark hair, making Martin's hands itch for a notepad and a pen.

His stomach knots tighter and tighter over itself, when he moves down the corridor towards the kitchen, and finds the entire cottage is encased in darkness.

"Martin?" a voice asks from the pitch-black kitchen, and Martin jumps, his chest flooding with the mix of exasperation and relief that has become synonym with Gerry in his mind.

"Why are you in the dark?" Martin asks, his voice soft. It feels important, for some reason, that they don't disturb the silence too much. As Martin's eyes get accustomed to the darkness, he can make out Gerry's form against the far end of the kitchen, his hair messed from restless sleep, his face tired, a steaming mug in his hand.

"Don't need it to see," Gerry whispers back with a shrug. "Why are you up?"

Martin makes his way over to him, leans on the counter by his side. It's hard to say if Gerry's radiating warmth, or if Martin is just too cold. "Nightmares."

"...Ah. Sorry." Gerry reaches over to place his mug on the table, and turns to face Martin. "Are you- I could make you a cup of tea. Can't promise it'll be any good, though."

His tone is genuinely apologetic, and Martin feels his lips curl into a smile. "Well, you had to be bad at something, didn't you?"

"Is my lack of tea-brewing ability a deal-breaker?" Gerry's voice carries the hint of a smile now, and his fingers brush against Martin's on the counter. "I'm willing to take some lessons, if that's the case. I happen know the perfect teacher."

"It apparently isn't a deal breaker, because you're both hopeless at it." It's mind-blowing, to think they're just... here.

Alive, standing at the kitchen in the middle of the night, the scent of coffee curling around them like a blanket as they make quiet jokes about a relationship that they haven't discussed, but that is somehow there anyways. The tension of looks exchanged over Jon's head, of brushes of skin that feel loaded with electricity and the knowledge that the other will be there, steady and reliable like the sunrise every morning.

"Well... the offer still stands, or if you want some of my coffee-"

"I shouldn't." Martin shakes his head. "It gives me anxiety, and I was hoping to go back to sleep."

"Oh." Gerry looks sideways and up at him, looking at a loss of what to do. Martin finds it endearing; of course Gerry can't deal with the thought of not fixing something; can't even fathom the thought that just his presence is doing wonders to ground him. "Can I do something, then?"

Martin looks down at him, at the faintest gleam of moonlight that comes across the dusty windows -they _need_ to clean that before Jon takes it upon himself to do it- to only insinuate the beautiful mix of blue and green of his sweet, concerned eyes.

"You could kiss me, Mister Keay."

The embarrassment of being so blunt is more than worth it, when Gerry's eyes fly wide open, and a surprised chuckle escapes him, almost sounding like it was punched out of him.

"I- would that help?" he asks, but he can't keep the smile off his lips and Martin is so taken by the sight of him that he nearly leans down to do it himself.

"I think there's one way to find out." Martin smiles.

Gerry's hands are careful when they finally land on him; one on the back of his neck, one on his cheek, just like he's seen him touch Jon a handful of times before they kiss. Martin's heartbeat speeds up, and he might be drunk on the feeling already, the thought of being _wanted_ almost as intoxicating as its counterpart.

He lets himself be pulled down, lets his face be tilted to the side, and the hand on his cheek pushes his glasses up his forehead so they don't get in the way.

It's a bit poetic, to kiss this ghost of pain and ink and love under the quiet glow of moonlight, and know that the only lonely thing in this kitchen is the mug of coffee cooling on the table.

They separate slowly, like waking up on a lazy morning, and Martin's wet lips tingle with _want_ and with the weight of words it's far too soon to say.

"Did that help?" Gerry sounds cocky and pleased, but also a little bit breathless, and Martin rolls his eyes as a wave of warmth washes over him.

"You know, I'm not so sure," Martin taps a finger against his chin. "We might have to try again to confirm."

Gerry laughs quietly, probably to avoid waking Jon up, Martin thinks, and the words threaten to spill from his lips again. "Well, we _have_ to be certain, don't we?"

\-------------------------------------------------

 _"She knew these were not her children, and this was not her home. But they kept calling her mum, and there were many, many pictures on the mantle showing the happy life they lived. Feeding the ducks at St. John's, having a picnic by the lake, playing at the beach, practically every moment of their life documented in carefully crafted snapshots. She did not remember having a spouse that captured those moments either, but surely the pictures couldn't be lying to her, could they? She'd had a bad night's sleep, she was confused, and she needed to make breakfast for her children, what kind of mother would let them go hungry? She swore she'd never be like her own."_ Gerry readjusts his arms as Jon shifts on his chest in seek of a more comfortable position, and he reaches forward to kiss the crown of his head before continuing. _"She started breakfast as she usually did, eggs on toast, and two slices of grilled ham, one for her and one for Dusty. Her hands stilled over the sizzling pan as she contemplated the name that felt so natural in her mind but that didn't fit with the reality she was currently living. She had two children, a house, and a lovely spouse with a lens for a face. She did not have a playful little mutt with ash-colored fur and a long lolling tongue, always with a chewed up stick by his awkardly large paws-"_

"So what you're saying is you can escape the fears with the power of quiche _and_ the power of puppies?" Martin asks, his voice tinged with amusement.

"That's exactly what I'm getting from it too, Martin, thank you." Jon snorts, and Gerry squeezes him in retaliation before looking at Martin. He finds him by the window, sitting at the little table they dragged there, with a notepad and a steaming cup of tea before him.

"Don't encourage him, that's how you end up having to pull him from coffins and alternate dimensions."

"In his defense, it was hardly his fault that he got hit on the face with that bat."

"See? Martin knows when things are my fault, that one wasn't."

"The coffin was _definitely_ your fault, though." Martin points at him with the spoon he used to stir some sugar into his drink. "Is this a mixed one?"

"It definitely sounds like it. Spiral, Stranger, Eye... I'm thinking it's the house itself." Jon shifts some more on his chest to look at Martin too, before squeezing Gerry's forearm. "We'd known if someone would just finish the statement."

"So demanding." Gerry rolls his eyes.

"The hungry, hungry Archivist," Martin mutters under his breath as he blows on his cup of tea, and Gerry snorts over Jon's offended _'Martin!'_. It's- it's good to see Marting feeling comfortable enough to joke around. "Sorry, sorry! Finish it, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Don't apologize," Gerry chuckles. "Where was I?"

"The power of puppies," Jon grumbles.

"I'm going to stop feeding you, sir."

\----------------------------------------------------------

"You should treat me to lunch or something, I've been sitting on a bus for eleven hours," Tim groans as he stretches his arms over his head to pop the kinks in his back.

"That's kind of your fault though," Martin chuckles. His shoulder feels cold where he bumps it against Tim's, a reminder that none of them really escaped the Institute intact. "You could've come through Helen."

"And miss the chance to feel like a regular human being? Martin, _please_." Tim bumps his shoulder right back as they walk down the main street. The little town is quaint and quiet, picturesque in a way Tim knows both Martin _and_ Jon are suckers for, which he supposes is good enough. Martin deserves to end his story in a place like this. "How have you been?"

"Hm? Oh, we've- we're doing well. It's- it's good. We're good." There's a spot of color to Martin's face when he smiles, and Tim rolls his eyes. "What?"

"You've really got the worst taste in men, it explains why you were never into me."

"I hope you'll be able to forgive me," Martin laughs. "How are things back home?"

Tim shrugs, shifting the cardboard box he's carrying to support it on his hip instead. "It's going. Elias is still nowhere to be found, not that the police are really looking for him anyways. Basira could probably find him, but she's got other things to worry about now."

Martin lets out a slow exhale, his shoulders growing a bit heavier. "Still no luck with Daisy?"

"She knows how to find her just fine, and Daisy's leaving a trail of dead avatars that's pretty clear to follow even for regular people." Tim sighs as well, running a hand through his hair. "Daisy moves too fast though. There's no way to predict where she's going next, she's not following any pattern."

"Yeah... Jon said as much. He's tried- he says the things he Sees in her mind make no sense, it's all impulse and instinct, nothing logical that he could understand."

"That sounds about right," Tim mutters. The thing that broke out of Daisy's skin, that launched down the tunnels in a clash of claws and fangs and blood along with the other two... he doubts there's much human thinking going on with any of the hunters right now. "I suppose it's not too bad as long as she's only hunting avatars, isn't it?"

"I don't know," Martin says quietly. "I don't- things don't feel as black and white anymore, if you ask me."

Tim snorts.

"Some of your best friends are avatars?" He asks. Martin arches an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look, and Tim feels the teasing smirk on his face turn pleased instead. "Yeah. Okay."

\-------

The place looks nice enough, a little stone fence with a wrought iron gate and a path made of stepping stones leading to a door whose blue paint has long since chipped and faded under sun and wind and rain. It looks... inoffensive, a little slice of the countryside to escape the chaos of the city, or whatever terrible plans your eldricht monster of a boss has weaved for you. Cozy and warm and welcoming, a place where one could make a home.

Martin pushes the door open, and Tim freezes at the very familiar scent coming from inside.

"...Tim?" Martin turns back to look at him when he doesn't follow him in. "What's wrong?"

How to explain it to Martin that nothing is wrong, or rather nothing he can put to words?

He remembers this smell, and the last time he felt it, the sound of rain spattering on the windows, and a movie on the background. He remembers teasing (back when he thought he was healing, that maybe one day there would be more to his life than just mourning his brother) about feeling like he was being set up for something, and then the hurried announcement and yes, don't be ridiculous, of course I'll move to the Archives with you, does that mean I have to call you boss now?

The thrill of being a safe space for someone, even broken as he was.

"Tim, are you-"

"Martin? Did you bring- oh." Jon stops just short of actually stepping out of the kitchen, looking at him like he's a ghost and the Desolation inside him _burns_ , though whether it's Jon's sorrow or his own that he's feeding off of is anyone's best guess. "I'm- hi."

_I hate you. I miss you._

"Hey," Tim pushes through a dry throat. "You- you made barg?"

Jon nods slowly. "I understand, if you don't want to eat with m-"

"It would be very stupid, though," interrupts a third voice, and Gerry's stepping out into the living room from somewhere deeper into the cottage. "You'd have to go all the way back to town to find yourself a sandwich or something. You look like crap, but I guess a long bus ride will do that to anyone, even fear avatars huh?"

His voice is somewhat terse, and Tim wonders if he can feel the hurt in Jon's voice just as intensely as Tim himself can. The air in the room grows heavy as every eye settles on Tim, waiting for him to reply.

"I'm- yeah. I think I'll ask Helen to give me a ride back. I can stay in her for a while to make it up to her," he says finally. Things are never going to be the same. Tim doesn't want them to be the same. The friendship they shared once was rooted in pain too, but this is different. "I could eat something, I guess."

\-----

"I'm- I brought some statements," he says later that night, after they've had dinner and cleared the plates away.

"Oh?" Martin arches an eyebrow where he's dropping an armful of blankets and a pillow on the sofa.

Tim averts his eyes.

"I just- I know you have other ways to feed now, but I thought it would be a good idea to keep your boyfriend from running dry too soon." He can feel their eyes on him, but he keeps his gaze on the little radio on the table by the window. "We don't want you going out to hunt random people."

"Thank you, Tim." Jon says quietly, carefully. Tim doesn't have to look up to guess Jon isn't looking at him either, or the small lopsided smile.

"Hm," he says. "Dinner- it was good. Thank you."

\-------------------------------------------------

"Gerry? Martin wants to know if- what are you doing?" Jon's words taste like surprise and laughter, like warm honey, like so many emotions Gerry has never had aimed at him before, and that feel like coming home. "You've got dirt on your nose."

Gerry looks up to find Jon leaning out the open window, looking down at him with bright eyes and a brighter smile. He's suddenly very aware of how he must look, the aforementioned dirt on his nose, and his hair done up into a messy bun to keep it out of his face, kneeling on the ground with a pile of badly pulled weeds by his side.

"I'm- I've never had a garden before." Gerry shrugs. It's not so much the words he's embarrassed about, but the implications. Like painting the door, like oiling the gate, building a garden is not something one does for a temporary place. "I just thought it would be fun to try- whoa, careful!"

He reaches up to hold Jon's forearm as he all but climbs out the window and comes to crouch down by his side.

"Have you started thinking about what you will plant yet?" Jon asks. There's not a hint of compulsion in the question, despite his eyes lighting up with the eerie green of his powers. "Maybe a raspberry bush, carrots... some potatoes later on?"

Gerry snorts. "Did you just use the Beholding to Know what veggies we could grow?"

"It's high time it was useful for something." Jon shrugs, giving him a coy little grin. When Gerry reaches over to pull him against his chest he comes easily enough, laughing. "You're going to get dirt on me."

"Get used to it." Gerry presses a kiss to his cheek. "I love you."

Jon turns his head then, to kiss the corner of his lips. "I love you too," he says.

The words pour into Gerry like warm water over a sore muscle, and they settle in his chest right where his heart should be, bright and warm and so sweet with emotion that Gerry can't bring himself to answer in any way other than squeezing Jon tighter against his chest, burying his face in Jon's mess of soft dark and grey hair.

"Jon? Did you- oh!" Martin's voice says above them. Gerry looks up at him, taking in his slightly confused smile. "What's happening?"

"We're planning a garden, apparently," Jon says before Gerry can respond.

Martin's eyebrows arch, and his mouth forms a little 'o' of surprise. "That sounds lovely actually."

"Any requests?" Gerry asks. It's a bit ridiculous how happy this makes him, that the two of them just... hopped into his dumb idea. It feels hopeful, like they too want to plan for a future together.

Martin rests his chin on his crossed arms on the windowsill, and gives them a smile just the slightest bit mischievous.

"I think we should plant lavender."

\-------------------------------------------------

"I thought you were done with the pining, sir," Gerry whispers into his ear, the grin clear in his voice.

Jon merely smiles and moves along on the sofa to make some space for him, before he turns back to look at Martin.

He's practically nose-deep in the old transistor radio they found back at the toolshed, his sleeves rolled back over his forearms and a streak of dust across his forehead where he scratched absentmindedly a few minutes ago.

"I'll give it to you, it _is_ a nice view," Gerry adds. He's got no regards for subtlety of course, and Jon smiles wider as Martin's cheeks flush a little, though he keeps his gaze stubbornly focused on the inside of the radio. "Are you sure you don't want us to get a new one?"

"This one is _perfectly_ good, thank you." Martin rolls his eyes. "It just needed some cleaning."

The satisfied smile on his lips when he flips the switch and the speakers crackle to life is a memory Jon will treasure for a long while.

"You continue to surprise me, mister Blackwood." Gerry chuckles. "What are we listening to?"

"I don't really- oh, this is good." Martin smiles again when the radio picks up a frequency. The music is somewhat static-y, but still recognizable as some old 70s rock. The tempo is fairly upbeat and cheerful, and Martin bounces a leg to it. "The silence was starting to get to me."

"We can't have that," Gerry nods solemnly, climbing to his feet. "C'mere."

"What?" Martin chuckles, but his hand comes to rest on Gerry's offered hand as the song picks up in rhythm.

"I'm asking you for this dance, sir." Gerry grins and pulls him up and against him in a twirl that has them tripping over each other and stumbling to regain their balance.

Jon smiles softly to himself as he watches them fall into step with each other, laughing all the way like a couple teenagers that have had one too many beers.

Gerry leans up to kiss a freckle on Martin's cheekbone, and Martin's eyes slide over to pin Jon, brighter than ever and making his heart skip a couple beats.

Jon stands no chance when large hands wrap around his wrists to yank him to his feet, but realistically, he wasn't really going to put up much of a fight.

 _'You can't dance and stay uptight'_ indeed.

\-------------------------------------------------

"It just doesn't make too much sense, if you ask me," Melanie says. She's not terribly worried about it, but it's been on her mind for a while now. "Jon feeds from you now, Helen has me or Tim in her corridors sometimes, I don't think I've _ever_ seen Tim feed... I thought these things _forced_ you to hurt people. Like the Slaughter did with me."

"I don't think anyone really knows, firecracker. The entities don't come with a manual, no matter how many old idiots have tried to write one." Gerry taps her knee softly with something cold and hard, and Melanie wraps her hand around the cider can. "Jon still has statements sometimes, so he and Helen are still feeding off of other's fear. My best guess is that Tim is feeding the Desolation with his own."

"What's Tim afraid of?" Melanie arches an eyebrow, taking a sip of her drink. It's both sweet and tart on her tongue, a good contrast to the bowl of salty chips Gerry placed on her lap when they came to sit at the garden.

"Jon, mostly," Gerry grunts. "Or rather, Jon mourning the way he was before. The Desolation is about sorrow and loss too, and those two have enough of that."

"Wow, I didn't know you were still so bitter about him ruining your first date." Melanie hides her grin behind the can; she can practically see Gerry rolling his eyes from the scoff he gives next.

"I think I'm allowed to be wary of an avatar of the Desolation holding a grudge against Jon."

"Or thinking he does."

"Or thinking he does," Gerry agrees. "What I'm saying is- I don't think even the avatars themselves know how this works, asides from 'feed your entity or you'll have a bad time'. What Gertrude and Dekker knew, what I thought I knew- even what the Eye lets me Know now is very limited when it comes to this."

"What about Martin?" Melanie asks.

"What about him?" Gerry asks right back, his voice careful. Melanie rolls her eyes.

"Does he feed too?"

"Not quite," Gerry says quietly after a moment. "He's neither here nor there, you know? Lukas forced him into the Lonely, but then he chose it himself. He's like Basira, or you when you had the bullet, only there's nothing to pull out of him to fix it."

The disappointment at this fact is clear in his voice, and Melanie remembers once again the kind of person her friend is.

"I'm sure having you helps." She shrugs. "All of us, I suppose."

Including herself in it feels weird, but right. Georgie's laugh comes through the window, mixed with Jon and Martin's quieter chuckles, and a crackly radio playing old classic rock. The garden smells like moist dirt and the cool, crisp highland air, and she can hear Gerry digging around with what she guesses must be a spade.

"I wanted to kill you when I first met you, you know?" she blurts out. _And now I'm here sitting with you while you work on your dumb little garden_ , she thinks, but doesn't say.

"I did get that impression, I don't know why. The knife, maybe." Gerry chuckles, and his spade thuds on the ground before he comes to sit against the wall with her, bumping their shoulders together. "I'm glad you didn't."

"Yeah." Melanie goes to take another sip of her cider to soothe her suddenly dry throat. She knocks her foot against Gerry's leg. "Yeah, me too."

\-------------------------------------------------

What with his mother, his general insecurities and the whole 'comiting to the embodiment of loneliness' thing, Martin has had very few opportunities to live with people in his adult life. He's surprised to find that he likes it, despite the constant itch of frustration coming from the bits of the Forsaken buried feel within him.

There's something to be said about hearing Gerry whistling to himself as he works on the garden, or waking up from a nap to the scent of whatever Jon is cooking for supper.

There is notoriously less to be said for _stepping on a wet towel at four in the morning when he's just trying to go into the bathroom to pee_.

"Gerry!" he snaps, trying to keep his voice to a whisper because even if Jon isn't asleep or even in the room right now, _it's four in the morning_.

"Martin? What happened?" Gerry asks a second after, his voice just the slightest bit shaky still, which Martin would take pride on at any other time. "Are you okay?"

"Why do you _insist_ on leaving your wet towels on the floor?"

"...Oh. Sorry?" Martin can practically hear Gerry's sheepish smile. "In my defense, I mostly lived in motel rooms?"

"Yes, and then you lived with Jon for like seven months." Martin rolls his eyes, straightening back up. "I'm going to have to do something about it."

"Oh, are you? What will you- oompf!" Gerry's low, teasing voice is cut short when the balled up damp towel finds its mark, and Martin closes the door to the bathroom with a satisfied smile.

\-------------------------------------------------

"We should start thinking of what we're going to do, I think." There's something to Martin's voice when he says it that gets Gerry into high alert mode immediately, which is a bit ridiculous, considering they're standing in front of the produce rack at the farm shop while Jon chooses some vegetables.

"About what?" Gerry asks.

"Well mostly I-" Martin stops and clears his throat. "I just-"

Martin stops again, this time with a little chuckle that sounds more nervous than amused. Jon turns around, eggplant in hand and eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Martin?"

"This is probably the weirdest way I've asked 'what are we?' in my life," Martin says after a couple seconds, shaking his head with a smile. "But mostly- are we staying here? At the cottage, I mean."

Oh.

"We can't keep living off of our savings, and I somehow doubt Elias is going to keep paying me and Jon a regular salary," Martin continues far more casually now that he got past the initial awkwardness, seemingly unaware of Gerry's brain blanking. "It does get a lot cheaper with the two of you not needing to eat, but I should probably try and get a job to, you know, feed myself and the like. I guess my question is if you'd rather stay here or go back to London or...?"

Gerry feels his eyebrows raise as what Martin is asking slowly rains down on him. It's- it's one thing to entertain his normal, boring life fantasies, and another one completely to hear someone else voice them.

"Hm. I suppose we do have to return to London eventually, to help look for Daisy." Jon taps his bottom lip with the eggplant's stem. "Whether we stay there or not is another matter entirely, I suppose. I don't really have a preference, Gerry-"

"The carrots won't be ready to harvest until next year," Gerry blurts out when they both turn to look at him. It feels important, for some reason.

These past three months have been a dream, so pleasant and calm Gerry has caught himself thinking on more than one occasion that maybe- maybe he's done, and he can rest now, here at the end of the world with these two.

Maybe he's earned this.

Jon and Martin are still staring at him, the former's eyes are gleaming with something that looks like fondness, and the latter's got a hand up to hide his grin.

"I mean- we can go wherever-" as long as they're together, that is, but he's not about to say that, not after using _carrots_ as his excuse. "Just-"

"He does have a point, Martin." Jon interrupts him with a shrug, coming closer to slot himself under Gerry's arm.

Martin nods sagely. "We can't just leave the carrots."

"Stop," Gerry snorts, shaking his head as Martin comes to lay a kiss on his forehead. I guess that's a yes on the job hunting, then. I could try to get something too."

"Huh." Martin blinks, and his shoulders shake with a little huff of laughter. "Gerry, I think you might be the one person on earth whose CV could look worse than mine, even with the unverifiable previous job."

"What a blast of an interview though, can you imagine? 'It says here you haven't had a job since... Pinhole Books around ten years ago?' 'well yes, I was off stopping terror rituals and killing people, and then I was dead for four years, but I got better.' "

"I think I'd hire you just for having the guts to lie like that," Jon says from under his arm, before accusingly pointing the eggplant at Martin. "And your previous job is _hardly_ unverifiable. I actually think your previous boss would give you a sparkling review."

"The one you killed after he put me in a nightmare dimension?" Martin asks, an eyebrow arched and his lips curled into an amused grin.

"I'm trying to flirt with you, sir," Jon deadpans. His voice has the light, tangy aftertaste of his bittersweet jokes, and Gerry squeezes him a bit against his side.

Martin's grin turns pleased as his face colors slightly, which makes Gerry smile when he realizes Martin was just fishing for the confirmation.

"I could give you a recommendation letter too." Gerry tangles his fingers in Martin's free hand. "Martin Blackwood? Overqualified for any job you throw at him, his only areas of opportunity are the occasional arson in work premises and the fact that he's very bad at keeping people out of his office."

" _Certain_ people," Martin says, butting his forehead against Gerry's with a smile.

"You two are ridiculous," Jon chuckles. "Let's get home already."

 _Home_ , the word rings in his chest like a bell, like the heart he wasn't given back but feels the pull of at every waking moment.

"Yeah. Let's go home."

\-------------------------------------------------

_The creature -it is shaped like a human, but the hunter knows better, can smell the monster in it- squirms and thrashes in its jaws, though what end it hopes to achieve is a mystery to the hunter, because the only thing it gets for its trouble is for said jaws to clench down tighter around it, until yellowed, long fangs pierce skin and stain red._

_It tastes like dirt._

_The hunter despises the taste of dirt, and even more so the feeling of it sliding down its throat, far too evocative of another time, another life that might as well have lasted forever, were it not for the prey it let escape, that for some reason came back and clung to it as tightly as the hunter now clings to its newest victim._

_Deep down in the hunter's chest something sparks to life at the thought, the memory of thin hands pulling at it even as pointed stones dug into their skin. The prey has a name, or at least it used to._

_The hunter shakes its head, trying to rid it if the useless, confusing thoughts._

_It too had a name one day, but that does not matter now. It is the hunter, and what it does is to chase, to kill._

_It lets go of the broken body between its jaws, just as another scent drifts into its nose._

_The hunter changes tracks, and starts the chase again, leaving behind any thoughts of previous prey, named or not._

Jon sighs, blinking the black and white and red of Daisy's vision away.

It's nothing new, he had an inkling of what he'd See even before he looked, but it still hurts. With each day that Daisy passes under the thrall of the Hunt her mind grows more and more distant, far from any reach they could have.

They need to go back to London soon. Between himself, Basira and Gerry, they might be able to pin Daisy's location before she bounces again.

It hurts. Jon is more than aware that after so much fighting to become something else, what dragged Daisy back into the pit she promised to not to return was her fondness for him.

The darkness in the room recedes a little when he opens his eyes again, the green glow casting eerie, menacing shadows out of every unassuming object, like trying to convince Jon he's not the most dangerous being to ever sit in this living room.

Down the little corridor come the sounds of Martin's soft snoring and whatever it is that Gerry's mumbling in his sleep, and Jon sighs. The tape recorder still runs somewhere in the living room, waiting perhaps for a declaration.

"I'm- I'll breach the topic with them tomorrow." He says in the end. Talking to the tapes has always felt grounding. "We just have to find Daisy, and then we'll be free to come back here for however long we want."

For the time being... there's no use in worrying, Jon guesses.

Out the corner of his eye he catches Martin's notebooks on his little table by the window, and he feels his lips arching into a smile despite himself.

They've come a long way from Jon fishing out discarded poetry from garbage bins, he thinks to himself as he pulls one of the notebooks. Thankfully, Martin has said he doesn't mind them reading his things as long as he isn't in the room, so this will make for a nice distraction.

"Good things", Jon reads aloud from the page he opens at random, which he notices has a lot less crossed out sections than the others. Apparently Martin found his words pretty easily after a few stumbles at the beginning. "You'll- you'll have to forgive me, Martin," he tells the recorder, chuckling. "I've never had a voice for poetry, in my opinion. But I'll leave it to the jury to decide."

He clears his throat, holding the notebook open with two fingers, Martin's neat, tight handwriting illuminated in green.

_'Good things, by Martin K. Blackwood._

_There is something ~~interesting~~ to be said  
About things that come in threes._

_Like ~~coins in a fountain~~ rings to a circus, or stars to Orion's belt,  
Like three ~~acts~~ parts to a story that is not finished yet._

_Why is it that three's a crowd, yet_  
Good things come in three's?  
People always say hello, Jon. _My apologies for interrupting whatever it was that our mutual acquaintance managed to sneak this into, but I thought it better to let her arrange the delivery as she saw fit._

_Hopefully this finds you alone; I shouldn't speak ill of a gift from our patron, especially with how well he served his purpose, but as useful as he's been in keeping you alive and encouraging you to develop your powers, your dear Gerard is quite adept at getting in the way, no doubt he gets it from Gertrude. Though I do suppose I should stop underestimating Martin by this point, shouldn't I?_

_I must admit, I neither expected nor wished to watch him walk out of the fog with you. It is far too late in the game for unwanted variables, but by this point I suppose I must simply sit back and hope that the Mother's blessing is enough to keep him out of my designs._

_By this point I suppose you have attempted to stop reading, I don't recommend it, you will only hurt yourself. I thought your little retreat had lasted enough already, and you could use some help getting back into the flow of work._

_Let us begin then, just one more, for old times sake._

_Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like. Sorry?  
> (Tags still stand tho)


End file.
